


Subtle Variations of Blue

by ghostrat



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:58:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1422295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostrat/pseuds/ghostrat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham is a starving artist and Hannibal Lecter is about to open his own restaurant in Baltimore. Encapsulated with the former's art, Hannibal commissions Will to paint a mural on the inside of his restaurant. They end up spending far too much time together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this for the hannibal big bang and never got it submitted. it's been almost a year since i finished it and i haven't had the love or energy to post it. now that series 2 is out, i figure i might as well. 
> 
> ittttttt's an art fic. it's really wordy, i'm so sorry. it's probably really boring too. if it's any incentive, they bone in chapter 3 and nobody dies.

Sunlight casts in through the small windows of Will Graham's cosy home. The late afternoon beams of light stray across his canvas, bouncing off the white between the paint and reflecting across the room from the messy array of dirty dishes and crockery in his kitchen. The white spaces on his canvas taunt him -- they are a challenge – but the sunlight is…. alarming. He blinks in quick succession and pauses to turn around and look at the clock on the wall. How long has it been?

His back cracks from the movement, startling him further. Six hours have passed since he picked up a paintbrush, and he hasn't stopped since. He lets out a sigh and puts the brush down against his easel to crack his knuckles and stretch his arms out. One of his dogs – Winston, a new addition to the family – yips at him and rubs his nose against Will’s leg.

“Nearly done, boy,” he murmurs, as he leans down to scratch the dog behind its ears. He's standing back up soon enough, brush in hand, faced with his unfinished painting.

For Will, creating his art is to completely encapsulate himself in the concept, to breathe through the paint and let his fingers become brushes, until the work is done and set aside for sale or display. When he works without pause, he never gives himself a chance to step away and critique the work. From the moment he picks up the brush, he becomes the image, and he cannot pull himself away.

To stand back now and stare at the abomination before him, sends a wave of nausea through him. The single square foot canvas beholds everything he had tried to escape the night before, as he had tossed and turned and gasped from sweating sleep. He has laid his nightmares out before him without his conscious mind even realising it, without giving him a chance to stop and start over.

Will drops the paintbrush from his hand, the paint-ridden bristles smacking on the cold and dusty floorboards beneath his feet, spattering a small spray of red across the floor. Hands are picking up the canvas before he realises what he's doing, his feet making a beeline for a small and battered cupboard that's tucked away beside a bookshelf.

He tugs open the door with unnecessary force. When it swings open, he's faced with months of insomnia, aches and pains, laid out in a stack of canvases of all different sizes. The newest addition, still slightly wet to the touch, is added without hesitation; slotted in with dozens of other nightmares.

Will can never bring himself to destroy art, so he keeps them piled together, covered in cloth, growing old as the dust-ridden skeletons in his closet.

 

He walks across the room to his kitchen, picking up his palette as he passes it, and dropping it in the sink along with his dirty dishes. He fills his electric kettle with water and sets it to boil, then lets the tap run and watches the colours spiral down the drain.

When he's finished making himself a black coffee and has the mug nestled between his palms, he snatches up a spare sketchbook he finds lying around the living room, then sets himself down against the arm of his sofa. He curls one knee to his chest and lets the other hang off the edge of the couch, his coffee set on the floor beside him so he has his full attention on the sketchbook.

With two sharp whistles, three of his dogs immediately scurry over and jump onto the sofa beside him, racing to get the better spot. He scratches them all behind an ear, before settling back against the armrest and allowing his fingers to trace the simplest of shapes he sees before him.

Will's coffee has run cold with naught but a single gulp taken from it when he hears his cell phone buzzing on the coffee table across from him. He snaps out of his artistic trance to realise another hour has passed, all of his dogs have since fallen asleep, and his stomach is groaning from a stark emptiness. He takes his time to lean over and pick up his phone, checking the caller ID before deciding whether to answer.

Jack Crawford, a former colleague, is someone he isn't particularly wanting to talk to. Bad memories arise at the sight of Jack's name – not memories, but associations. Associations of twisted grimaces, glaring eyes and an ambient threat in the air surrounding him. His past career as a sketch artist for the local police had been interesting to say the least, but not nearly as so until he crossed paths with Jack Crawford. Bland sketches of hooded muggers and violent ex-partners had turned into blank, desolate faces of killers, with a world of horror hidden beneath, shining brightly out of mad eyes.

When Jack learnt of Will's particular empathetic abilities, interviews with witnesses turned into visits to crime scenes, facing Will with a whole new world of terror. Blank, desolate faces turned into decomposing cadavers and sputtering officers who choked on the blood spilling from their own necks. Will didn't know what was to come next, but he quit his position and cut as many ties with the FBI as he could before waiting around to find out.

Looking at his phone now, he realises, he didn't cut enough. He and Jack had been friendly, but not friendly enough to quell the anxious waves that lap at his insides at the very sight of the man's number on his screen.

He sits back into place as he cancels the call, but before tossing the phone aside, he pauses at a new notification on his screen. Will smiles at the word “commission” in the title, but he makes no effort to reply to the request and deletes the message from his inbox. Most of Will's income comes from the pockets of others, but considering his track record, it's still barely enough to get by. If he hadn't inherited the isolated little house he lives in, he doesn't doubt he would be in a halfway home with nothing but a packet of paint and a mug of coins.

It isn't that Will doesn't get recognition, it's his reputation which has gradually swerved out of control. He began accepting few commissions here and there, managing his time as best as he could, spending his money only on food for himself, his dogs, and more supplies. But as his nightmares began, his desperation for distraction swelled, and he accepted every request thrown his way. His home was covered head to toe in canvases until one job blurred into another and he would be ripping, slashing, breaking everything in sight, uncertain where nightmare ended and art began. He bailed on too many paid jobs then, and now they come sparingly, as does Will's rate of accepting them.

It's purely a case of bad timing for the unknown caller. If it were another day, Will may have considered it. But now, slouched beneath the remnants of a black and red beast awakened from his dreams, breathed to life upon his canvas, Will needs privacy, silence, and more coffee.

He eventually falls asleep on the sofa surrounded by his pups; his pencil fallen from his grip to dip in his half-full mug of caffeine.

Most week days, Will Graham's time is spent temping at a local community college. His position is less of a life drawing tutor and more of a supervisor for a room full of jobless adults with the artistic mentality of four year olds. Occasionally he comes across someone with a flair in their technical ability, and he will linger towards their easel for most of the lesson. But most commonly, Will remains slouched in an armchair beside their model, chatting idly with them about fishing near Lake Audubon.

As his last afternoon class comes to a close on a warm Thursday, he begins to make his rounds through the classroom to examine everybody's easels, with as much enthusiasm as he can muster – which, as it happens, isn't very much. It's incredible how such an environment can sap Will's creativity and motivation so easily. He doesn't see anything interesting, as he has come to accept to be the norm, but he takes his time nevertheless.

Once he has announced the end of class, the doorway floods with exiting students, so Will takes his time to gather his own belongings into his satchel. He scans the room for abandoned art equipment, remembering his low supplies at home, and pockets a pencil or two that he finds in the grooves of an empty easel. At the sound of a voice behind him, he starts, having been under the impression he was alone.

“That's a filthy habit you've got there,” the voice says, deep and unfamiliar, with an accent that Will can't quite place.

He spins around the moment he hears it, and finds the man's appearance is unfamiliar too. He's faced with a wide, sharp jaw with a firm mouth, cold brown eyes and neatly kept hair. The mouth quirks into a smile and the entirety of his expression seems to relax, helping Will's shoulders to do the same.

 

The man holds a hand out but Will keeps his own by his sides. “I'm Hannibal Lecter,” the man introduces himself, pocketing his hand soon after he realises that Will doesn't plan on shaking it. “I attempted to call you earlier this week.”

Will lowers his eyes as he scoops up his satchel and begins to fiddle with his glasses, adjusting and readjusting them on his face. He tries to remember back, and suddenly the recollection of an unfamiliar phone number makes an impression in his mind.

“You wanted to commission me?” Will asks, vaguely aware of the slightly confrontational nature of the address – the two of them standing alone in a room together, Will all ragged clothes and nerves while Hannibal is completely pristine with his straight set shoulders and hands tucked into the pockets of a three piece suit.

“That was the plan, yes,” Hannibal confirms.

“I'm sorry I didn't manage to respond to your message,” Will apologises, with such a lack of sincerity in his voice that Hannibal actually chuckles. He continues nonetheless, “I was... previously engaged.”

“Of course,” Hannibal excuses. “But you are no longer. May we talk about my request? There is a reasonably quiet cafe a short walk from this college; it would be suitable for our conversation.”

Just like that, Will was having lunch with Hannibal Lecter. The cafe itself is nothing special, just a local coffee shop with a few light meals to offer, but Hannibal peruses the menu with an intense focus nonetheless. Will satisfies himself with complimentary bread and a black coffee heaped with sugar as Hannibal lays out several photographs on the table between them.

“I have some years experience as an enthusiast of the culinary arts,” Hannibal begins, and Will decides already that he doesn't like the man. “But I am opening my own restaurant soon; a first for me. It is a very special occasion, and I have a very particular kind of visual in mind for the interior.”

Will interrupts with a mouth half full of bread, “I think you have the wrong idea – I'm not some kind of renovator.”

Hannibal continues as if Will hadn't opened his mouth. He pushes the photos closer to him, and Will looks down to find they are interiors of a restaurant, covered in sawdust and ragged sheets to protect the furniture from renovations. “These photos are not as recent as I would like,” Hannibal excuses, as he runs a finger down the right-hand wall within them. “But I hope you can see clearly enough: I would like to display a mural along this wall.”

Will pauses with his coffee halfway to his mouth, his eyes flickering from Hannibal to where his finger rests on the photos. He gulps half of his drink in one go before he sets it aside, then pulls the photos closer to get a proper look.

From their angle, the building looks rather long. There are a row of booths lining the left wall, met by a counter and what he assumes will soon be made into a bar. The wall is lined with slats of a deep auburn wood, which is repetitious throughout the interior in the ceiling and in some of the woodwork of the booths and bar. The right wall, however, is completely bare, lined only with about a dozen tables and chairs disconnected from the wall. The restaurant is split into two sections; an area in the back being much more secluded and separated from the other tables with a two-step raise in the floor.

“Would the mural stretch to the back as well?” Will asks, his voice quiet as he studies the photos.

“Yes.”

Will breathes out and rubs a hand against his stubbled chin. “It's definitely a big job. It's a rather tall ceilinged building, I assume you'd want the mural to reach?

“Yes,” again.

Finally Will sets the photos back down and returns to his coffee. “What kind of art did you have in mind?”

Hannibal breaks into another smile as he stacks the pictures into a neat pile. “Anything you can paint, I want it on my wall,” he answers. “I have found the artist I want, so now all I need is for him to produce.”

Will laughs politely and digs his nails into the line of his jaw, keeping his eyes focused on the sugar bowl in the centre of the table. “Can I ask, before we really do this, how you found out about me? I mean my art; my phone number; where I work?”

Hannibal hums, still smiling with a keen interest, which Will can only just catch from his periphery. “A coffee shop in Baltimore – where I live, and where you will be working. The owner had one of your canvases on the wall. It was an enormous piece, I believe, dated as three years old. She gave me your contact details.”

He slides a business card across the table with Will's name and phone number on it, and Will has to hold back a laugh. It has been quite some time since he handed out a business card, or even printed one. It’s practically a vintage piece.

Hannibal seems to catch the amusement in Will's eyes. “I was worried the number would be bad, so I looked you up online and found a young art student's blog, making mention of you as her tutor at the college.”

The smile in Will's eyes gradually dies out as he listens. This isn't much of a joke anymore – It's clear that Hannibal is serious about the work, and he supposes he should start to become serious too. To keep with such a trend, he reluctantly decides it best to mention his catch; but Hannibal beats him to it.

“After a conversation with the cafe owner, I am aware that you have quite a reputation for unfinished work.” Will's smile is completely gone now and his hands return to fiddling with his glasses, taking them off to clean them and readjusting them again. Hannibal adds, much more quietly as he leans across the table, “I am entirely aware of this – but I believe that for such beautiful art, you are worth the risk.”

Will isn’t sure where to look when Hannibal says that, but he can feel the other’s eyes upon him and worries whether his face has flushed red. He expresses his gratitude with quickly broken eye contact and a flash of a smile, until Hannibal rescues him from the awkward silence by scraping his chair back and standing from the table.

“If you’d like, I can show you the restaurant now before you decide whether you wish to accept my terms,” he offers, looking down at where Will sits while he smooths out the front of his suit. Will can't really find a reason to decline, and when he thinks of his little house full of dogs and not so full of food, he nods his agreement and stands to leave the cafe with Hannibal.

The drive to Baltimore passes quickly as he follows Hannibal's car in his own. They eventually pull up outside of a quietly elegant building, which has white stained bed sheets hanging up to cover the large glass windows from the inside. The sign above the door is blank, with the faded letters of a shop long since passed, yet to be retitled and become something new.

Hannibal unlocks the front door, giving Will a moment to peer through the door's glass windows before he's led inside. The restaurant has definitely improved since the photos were taken, and everything looks much closer to a finished state than he had pictured.

Hannibal leads Will through on a simple tour, pointing out where a piano will sit, which wines he hopes to display behind the bar, and offering a mere glimpse at the kitchens, until finally coming to a pause at the bare wall he wants to colour to life. He stands back against the bar as Will approaches it slowly, looking up at the stark white and feeling awfully small against the impending threat of artist's block.

He's close enough to touch it, and he does so before he even realises it. His fingers brush the hard, cold surface and the plaster leaves its thin white dust on the pads of his fingers. He feels a stirring of fear at the sheer size of the project, but the longer his fingers remain on the surface of the challenge, the stronger Will's desire to defeat it grows. It's an ache in his wrist, forcing him to slide his hand up and press his whole palm flat against the wall and suddenly he sees; he sees a burst of colour before his eyes which disappears the second he blinks. He's desperate to bring it back and keep it there forever, framed upon the wall; framing the wall itself. The white of the plaster is searing into his mind as he scratches his nails into the wall, and he knows. He has to tear the white away, he has to fill the room with his colour.

Will doesn't realise that Hannibal had left the room, but when he returns carrying a tray of coffee for them both, he finds Will with a pencil in hand, drawing as if the strokes were following an invisible white rabbit leading him to some hidden treasure that neither of them can see. He draws directly onto the wall, one hand still pressed firmly against it, his face only inches away from the surface as he spills his ideas onto his plaster canvas.

Hannibal assumes for the most part that Will is oblivious to his presence, but when he seats himself down at one of the booths to watch him draw, he hears Will's quiet voice carry from across the room.

“I'll take the job,” he says, but doesn't put down his pencil and doesn't move an inch away from his sketches.

Hannibal smiles to himself, picking up one of the glass mugs and taking a small sip, helping himself to his own private viewing of Will's creations.

 

Hannibal allows Will some time alone to prepare himself and let his muse develop. It's comforting to Will for him to be able to spend the weekend at home with his dogs and his sketchbooks, without having to worry too much about the impending future. Hannibal has already paid him for his first day in advance, giving him a chance to restock on supplies and feed himself and his family of strays.

The ease of working idly at home ends up being quite dangerous for Will, without him yet realising it. He has fallen into such a routine of waking up slowly and putting his dogs before himself and his art. He feeds them, walks them, bathes them and then finally, as the sun sets, he allows them to wander through his property while he sits back on his front porch and draws them.

The front of his sketchbook is filled mostly with gestures of dogs as they jump and run and sniff around his yard, as simple exercises to warm up his hands and help the charcoal meld into his grip. By the time he moves onto generating ideas for the mural, the dogs are scratching and whining at the door and he has to interrupt his flow to allow them indoors comfort.

The sun has set by now and the dogs find their places in front of the fireplace, waiting for Will to switch on the heater and switch off the lights. He ends up finding it easier to draw at night, curled up in his arm chair under a single lamp as his charcoal-ridden fingers slip around his pencil and smudge new features onto the page, but always finds himself barely blinking in the early hours of the morning. He trudges up the stairs to his bedroom, drops his book onto a shelf and collapses into bed, prepared to sleep until noon.

 

Monday morning comes as an unexpected and unwanted change from his methodical weekend routine. After three hours of sleep, he blinks himself awake at the sounds of his dogs yipping and scratching at the front door, coupled with a braking of tires in his front gravel driveway.

Will just manages to pull himself out of bed when a knocking comes at the door. He pauses only to pull on some plaid pyjama pants, before making his way downstairs to find himself face to face with Hannibal Lecter.

“Is this a bad time?” He asks, somehow avoiding a look of awkwardness as he stands amidst a crowd of Will's excited pets.

“I, uhh – No, not a bad time,” Will stammers, then hurries across the room to find one of his coats hanging from the back of his armchair to protect him from the chill of the morning.

Hannibal enters the house as per Will's silent beckoning, his eyes exploring all around to take in the array of canvases and small glimpses of art hidden amongst the mess. The wall shared with a fireplace is covered in paint; an over-ambitious attempt at a mural with no real conceptual direction and varying distractions of everyday life. The paint is chipped and peeling in places, thicker in the gaps between bricks and faintly dried evidence of dripping from the thick oils slapped onto the wall.

Hannibal points to it questioningly as Will runs a hand through his hair and attempts to locate his glasses from where he'd left them on his chair the night before.

“We all make mistakes in our youth,” he explains, causing Hannibal's lips to quirk upwards before he finally settles into a seat by the heater.

“I'm sorry I'm not better presented,” Will continues, “I can – Do you want a coffee? I've been oversleeping lately, I'm -”

Hannibal cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “Will, I'm fine, thank you. I wasn't sure if you quite knew the way to the restaurant yet, so I came to offer you a ride.”

Will pauses with his electric kettle hovering under the faucet of his sink. “Work, right,” he nods, and continues to prepare a coffee for himself. “I guess I'd lost track of time.”

“It's Monday,” Hannibal explains for him. “And I do have a schedule to maintain. I was hoping for you to begin painting today. I have a collection of paints at the restaurant, and I can leave you to buy more if they aren't sufficient.”

“I'm sure they'll be fine,” Will excuses, although there is a skip in his breathing. He uses his coffee as a chance to remain in the kitchen with one hand on the bench and his shoulders hunched, the other hand pinching his nose in an attempt to stifle a newly emerging headache from the light of the morning.

Hannibal remains silent as Will goes through the motions of preparing his dose of caffeine, and when he lifts the mug to his lips and turns around to lean the small of his back against the kitchen counter, he finds Hannibal sitting in the same position, although his eyes are lowered in thought.

“You're discomforted by this,” Hannibal observes, looking back up to gauge a reaction from Will's expression, but his face is hidden – quite purposefully – by his mug. “I promise you, Will, if I could make the transition from unemployment to a full time commitment smoother, I would. I'll give you a few more minutes to get ready.”

He finally stands and makes his way for the door, continuing outside to wait by his car. Will drinks half of his coffee in one gulp, grimacing as the heat burns down his throat, before tossing the rest of the drink into the sink. He hunches over the faucet to splash water in his face in a half-hearted attempt to wake himself, then retreats back to his bedroom to find some clean clothes.

He meets Hannibal outside of the house in ten minutes time, wearing a thick coat over a flannel hooded jacket and tucking his artist satchel under one arm. Without speaking, Hannibal opens the passenger door to let him in, then immediately rounds to the other side of the vehicle to strap himself into the driver's seat.

Before he starts the car, he twists around to produce a tupperware container and wrapped set of cutlery from the back seat. “I had a feeling you were a late riser,” he explains, as he hands the container to Will. “We have an hour's drive ahead of us. Have some breakfast and see if you can't wake yourself up.”

Will smiles politely as he cracks open the container and is met with the warm smell of scrambled egg and home-cooked sausage. He thanks Hannibal after he takes the first bite, instantly finding himself more susceptible to such an hour once his stomach begins to fill.

By the time they arrive at the restaurant, Will is sufficiently awake, but there is still a large part of him left on his pillow in Wolf Trap. Hannibal leads him inside and offers him his small but adequate array of sketching materials, as well as a few basic paints, and Will should feel hyped and ready to begin.

But he stares at his previous work gracing the wall, admiring it as if it weren't his own. They both stand in silence for a few minutes until Hannibal retreats to one of the booths again, this time busying himself with a ledger and some documents while Will's creativity is left to blossom on the other side of the room.

He drops his things and sheds his top layer, rolls his sleeves up and leans a forearm up against the wall. Beside him is a foldable plastic table riddled with supplies, where Will picks a pencil from it and sets it against the wall, the graphite tip hovering over where he had left off the previous week.

He waits, ready for his knuckles to shift and for the pencil to drag across the plaster, to continue the dead-ended line into a promise of shape and colour to come. He waits, but nothing comes, and his fingers remain tense around his utensil. There is no comfort in Hannibal's distant presence, unlike the previous session, and he feels too aware of the possible eyes on the back of his head. Will can hear pages turning and the scratching of an ink pen, so he knows Hannibal's attention is elsewhere, but the metaphorical spotlight hovering over him feels too much and his ears grows hot from nerves.

Hannibal soon seems to realise Will's predicament, and gets up to leave him in peace without a word of goodbye. Will is prepared for the art to flow, but he chokes harder, his hand shaking and dropping the pencil to the floor.

He steps away from the wall and runs his hands up through his hair then back down over his eyes, pushing his glasses momentarily off his face. He chooses a different pencil and tries again, rests his arm at a different point on the wall and digs the tip of his pencil against the plaster. He presses until the graphite breaks, then turns around to choose another, and another, until the floor around his feet is littered with broken specks of graphite.

When he hears Hannibal's footsteps returning him to the room, Will pushes himself, grabbing a chunk of charcoal from the table and pulling a thick dark line down the wall to continue from his previous drawing. He can feel Hannibal's presence directly behind him as he pushes and pulls the colour with his fingers, creating curves and edges until the form of a wolf begins to materialise on the wall before him.

“Interesting,” Hannibal comments, a soft murmur under his breath. He sounds unimpressed, making Will grind his teeth out of frustration. His grip tightens around the charcoal until it breaks in half between his fingers, making him start.

“It's wrong,” he snaps, throwing the charcoal down. He turns to find Hannibal directly behind him, hands behind his back and eyes on the wall. Eventually they stray to Will's face, watching him rub at the corners of his eyes beneath his glasses.

“/What's/ wrong?” He prompts, attempting to keep all negative expression from his voice.

“It's different than the other day. It's too...” Will trails off as he waves a hand towards the front of the restaurant. Hannibal's gaze follows his fingers to look out the window, where the sheets have been pulled down to let in light and a mix of pedestrians and cars pass leisurely by them, as if they were invisible.

“I understand I've taken you out of your comfort zone,” Hannibal states. “As your client, I am responsible for that. All you have to do is ask me, and I will pander to your need, to ensure you are as comfortable as possible. What I care about is the art, and the assurance that the art will get made.”

Will keeps two fingers at the bridge of his nose, holding his head up as Hannibal crosses the room to the front windows. “If it is a simple matter of recreating previous motivational circumstances, then that will be simple.”

“No,” Will interrupts, as he turns back to the sketches on the wall. “Repetition often does more bad than good. It creates a... a staleness in the air.” He clenches his hands into fists, opening and closing his mouth as he tries to find the words to explain his frustration. “It feels forced.”

“Then we must relax you,” is Hannibal's instant, easy answer. The room darkens slightly as he hangs the corners of the sheets back over the hooks at the top of the windows, then starts to shrug his suit jacket off his shoulders as he approaches his artist. He rests it over the back of a booth chair, along with his tie, then begins to unbuckle his cuffs and fold his sleeves up to his elbows.

“We will take things one step at a time,” he promises, as he pries open a bucket of white paint on the table now between them. Will watches as he picks out a thick, square brush, used more often for painting walls than painting art.

He finally smiles at Will as he uses the brush to stir the paint in the can. He then lifts it from the liquid, twisting it in his fingers to stop any dripping, as if he were mixing a delicate sauce. Will finds himself transfixed as Hannibal brings the brush to the wall and begins to paint white directly onto the plaster.

“Priming comes before painting, yes?” Hannibal says to him, although it is less of a question and more like a statement at the beginning of a recipe for art making. “These first few days are crucial for the development of your ideas, so you continue what you are doing, and I will keep myself busy helping in a way that is as little in your way as possible.” He flashes a smile again.

Will does feel a little more relaxed with that commanding voice talking him through his process. He stands still for a few minutes more as he watches Hannibal's wrist working with the brush, speeding up over larger areas and then slowing down as he approaches Will's previous sketches. He leans in closer to the wall, face firm with concentration as his brush licks the edge of the pencil but does not stray too far over.

“You have a wonderful hand,” Will finds himself murmuring, ignoring the flush that lights up his cheeks when he realises what he's said. He instead turns away to pick up another – unbroken – pencil, and begins to draw without thinking, leading his lines away from the wolf. “Have you painted before? It's rare to come across a beginner with such a steady and meticulous stroke.”

Hannibal breathes out a soft laugh and turns his head to catch a glimpse of the artist beside him. “I dabble,” he admits, but Will can hear a forced modesty to his voice, and makes a note to one day pry further enough to discover Hannibal's artworks.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Graham is a starving artist and Hannibal Lecter is about to open his own restaurant in Baltimore. Encapsulated with the former's art, Hannibal commissions Will to paint a mural on the inside of his restaurant. They end up spending far too much time together.
> 
> Chapter 2: Painting and dinner dates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH HECK, THERE BE KISSIN'
> 
> this is just as fun for me to post as it is to read, because i can't at all remember what happens in each chapter

The next day follows a similar routine, but Will forces his head onto his pillow much earlier in the night, so when Hannibal comes to his door in the early morning, he is prepared. He eats a wonderful breakfast in Hannibal's passenger seat, and when he readies himself for a long day of painting, Hannibal remains by his side without question.

Will begins to lead this time, telling Hannibal which colours to put where. He would normally reel at the possibility of having to collaborate with another mind – any mind other than his own would surely do it wrong, and that just won't do – but he's able to relax in knowing they are still just priming the wall. Whatever goes on top as the finished coat will be his own.

He moves on from pencils and charcoal fairly quickly, and begins to sketch in paint. He chooses a thick brush with a finer point and dips generous amounts of dark paint into the bristles. He allows the lines to flow freely, the weight of each line varying with the angle of his stroke. Will notices every few minutes when Hannibal turns his head to watch him, his attention straying from his own task to admire Will’s handiwork.

He breaks into small smiles, accompanied by slight frowns, when Will presses his fingers into the paint, to blend and mark with the pad of his thumb alongside his brush as he curiously watches Will’s hands-on techniques.

Will begins to shift his step to follow his hand, leaning across the invisible line between them and onto Hannibal’s section of the wall. Hannibal opens his mouth to protest that the white paint is still wet, but holds off on speaking to watch the way Will will strokes his fingers through it, unafraid of the mess, to mix the white with his black.

Hannibal ducks under Will's outstretched arm and they begin to move in sync, swapping places and painting around each other; the stark contrast of Hannibal’s attention being constantly captivated by Will's hands while all of Will's focus and concentration is on the wall itself. If he weren't moving with such grace to dodge his companion and move his brush between them, Hannibal would suspect that Will doesn't even know Hannibal is there beside him.

They continue for hours without speaking, gradually making their way to the back of the room. A routine begins to form, where Hannibal will lay down the priming paint and Will will follow shortly after to blend his colours in. When Will stops to lean in close and focus on a detail he doesn’t want to forget, Hannibal steps around him and tends to sections of the wall he had previously left bare. By the end of the day, at least a third of the wall is covered with some form of paint.

Hannibal, unused to such strenuous painting, turns away first when he checks his watch at sunset. He leaves the main room as silently as he can, as to not break Will’s focus, and retreats to the kitchens in the back of the restaurant. Will attention is finally torn from the wall when Hannibal physically pulls his hands away some minutes later, taking the paintbrush with one hand and gently grabbing ahold of his wrist with the other.

“We’ve done much today, but you need to eat,” he scolds to Will’s disappointed look as he tries to turn back to the mural. “You can continue after I’ve fed you, is that fair?”

Will allows Hannibal to sit him down on a paint-stained bed sheet, laid down to protect the mahogany floorboards from their work. A tray is set between them with several bowls of rich-looking picking food, as well as two glass cups of coffee on each sides of the tray.

“I certainly do feel specially treated,” Will admits as he pokes a fork into a bite-sized dice of marinated beef sausage from one of the bowls. He pauses to close his eyes and lick his lips, fully appreciating the flavour that rushes past his tongue, before he re-opens them to pick more avidly with his fork.

“Are you not usually served lunch on your commissions?” Hannibal questions, his tone of genuine curiosity as he picks slower at their food.

Will shrugs and hums with a full mouth. Eventually, he replies, “Not to this extent. And -- When I usually work for clients, I’m at home with the dogs, painting on canvas.”

Hannibal continues, “Would you say this is your biggest commission so far?”

Will smiles at Hannibal then, grins around his next bite, teeth latching onto the metal of his little fork. “It’s certainly my most expensive.”

Hannibal doesn’t appear as amused, but he smiles nonetheless. As he lowers his head and lifts his cup of coffee to his lips, Will notices the shine gone from his eye as his smile fades around his cup. He is not left in the dark for long, however, as Hannibal sets his cup back down and beckons Will’s attention, his voice all seriousness when he says Will’s name.

“This mural is very special to me,” he begins, “As is this restaurant. It marks the beginning of something important to me, and I hope to keep it with me for many years.” He licks his lips and Will suddenly feels guilty, sitting where he is and enjoying fine food and coffee when he could be working instead.

“I’m not saying I’m unhappy with your work. I enjoy your art and always will --”

“If this is about the other day,” Will interrupts, his throat feeling tight.

“No, no,” Hannibal waves a hand quickly to pass off the comment. “I understand an artist cannot turn on their muse like a switch. What I’m saying is the opposite of that; I wish to have your focus entirely set on this project.”

“Well, of course,” Will responds, a frown of confusion beginning to tie his brows together.

“Will,” Hannibal starts again, “What I mean is, I want your time spent on the mural to be uninterrupted. I would like you to work on my commission exclusively.”

Will freezes, but it’s not long before his fingers are avidly tapping at the side of his coffee cup and his eyes are darting for something else to look at. He’s not sure how he feels about that -- He’s worked so hard to integrate all of his commissioned work together and to get into a flow of interchangeable projects, and now he’s expected to drop everything for a single one? He supposes now is his chance to be honest and speak up -

“I don’t think I should cut myself off from work like that.”

Hannibal smiles softly at him and reaches over to pick up his half-empty cup of coffee, place it on the tray and touch the edges of each bowl to line them back up as they were.

He speaks with his eyes directly on Will’s, offering, “I can increase your charge, if that is your concern.” It is, but Will knows he has to consider other variables. Habits are hard to break, and easy to fall into.

Will takes but a second to find his next words. “It’s almost like you’re trying to cut me off from other jobs to keep my brush to yourself,” he comments.

Hannibal smiles in response and it sends a shiver down Will’s spine. “Another coffee?” he offers, and Will nods as he quickly turns his head away.

They don’t speak any more of Hannibal’s terms, instead remaining on the floor with their warm drinks in hand and sitting close enough to the painted wall to look upon it as they talk. The conversation is nothing so serious as it had been, and Will remembers less as the evening turns to night.

He tells Hannibal of his dogs, smiling to himself as he paints a small silhouette of each one on the wall beside him, the figures running and jumping as dogs tend to do when they’re let into an open field. Hannibal leans close and finds a brush of his own, in an attempt to mimic the shapes. He follows Will’s murmured instructions about the shape of the nose, back, tail and ears for each breed he’s picked up. Within half an hour, the two of them have a small pack of dogs running a foot span across the bottom of the wall between them. Will has a warm, half-asleep smile on his face and an empty coffee cup clasped tightly to his chest as he rubs his pinky against the tail of his collie, to blend the black paint into the white wall.

The lights in the restaurant are usually used at a minimum, considering Hannibal is not yet open for business, so they are soon enshrouded in a darkness only interrupted by the streetlights outside. The few streaks of light, which seep in from between the cracks of the sheets over the windows, cast across the mural and soften Hannibal’s face. Will keeps his eyes low, counting the dogs on the wall, but he can see the soft glow of light against shadowed skin from his periphery, and his vision slowly begins to haze with this in mind.

He blinks in quick succession as the dogs begin to meld into each other with his blurred vision, and he vaguely remembers hearing Hannibal mentioning something about colour scheme, before he removes his glasses to rub at his eyes. His palm applies pressure to try and wake himself up, but as soon as he sees the popping stars behind his eyelids, he slips into a world of dark, and feels his family of strays following him in his dreams.

Will awakens to a bright light enhancing the pink of his eyelids and the subtle sound of shuffling feet. He expects to be aching, but when his muscles tense and begin to awaken, he feels nothing but a soft leather beneath him. As his eyes flicker open, he realises there is a weight upon him, and eventually manages to sit up, to find himself lying on one of the restaurant’s booths with a thick blanket draped over him.

On the table beside him is a steaming mug of something, smelling vaguely like freshly brewed coffee. His eyes still half-closed, he reaches out to take it and hesitantly sips, but instantly relaxes when he finds the liquid is still piping hot. It must have been placed there recently.

“Good morning, Will,” he hears Hannibal call from around a corner where he cannot see him. He twists in the booth to stretch and straighten his back as Hannibal enters from the kitchens, carrying a box filled with paints and brushes for the mural.

“Morning... Did I sleep here?” Will asks, taking in Hannibal’s appearance. His clothes are slightly rumpled -- as rumpled as Hannibal would ever allow -- but he still looks brighter, like he has been awake for much longer. He interrupts any possible answer by adding, “What time is it?”

Hannibal sets the box down on the table of paint cans they had been using the night before. He rolls a sleeve back to check his watch and replies, “Half ten in the morning.”

Will instantly starts, gulping down a larger portion of his coffee and jumping out of his seat so abruptly that he knocks his thigh against the corner of the table. As he hisses and presses his palms against his leg, he explains, “I’m late for my class.”

Hannibal makes no sudden move, remaining exactly where he is with the same chipper smile about his face. “Will, I told you last night,” he begins as he walks over to where Will has sat back down in the booth, “You will be working on my commission exclusively. You don’t have time for those pointless classes.”

Will frowns as he rubs a hand through his bed hair. Hannibal reaches over him to take away the blanket and begins to fold it in front of him, all casual and pleasant as if Will weren’t even there.

He continues talking, “I will be happy to pay you in advance for this week. All I ask is that you devote today to more productivity. We both managed to produce a lot of sketches last night,” he pauses to gesture a hand at the wall, “I would love to see it continued.”

He folds the blanket over his left forearm, as his right hand slips into his pocket. He pulls out a small wad of cash in a money clip, and pries out a few bills to leave on the table in front of his artist. “There is your morning class. If you would like me to make you breakfast before I go, I would be happy to, otherwise there is a small cafe on this block that serve a wonderful egg croissant.”

Will is still half asleep, his mind still attempting to comprehend Hannibal’s words. He has little time to react to this before Hannibal is up and gone again, tending to something in the kitchens while Will is left to fidget his fingers in his lap and blink into the sunlight bleeding in from outside.

Eventually, he snatches up the money, shoving it haphazardly into his jeans pocket before busying himself with finishing the rest of his coffee.

With the excuse of trying to start a business, Hannibal excuses himself for the day. Will is still curled up in the booth when he leaves, suited up with a coat draped over one arm and a briefcase of paperwork clutched in his hand. It takes Will a few minutes to get himself up, but when he finally does, he looks upon their drafted mural with a feeling of determination and... God, he’s tired. One more coffee shouldn’t hurt.

Will realises at this point that he hasn’t had a proper look at the kitchens or any of the behind-the-scenes areas of the restaurant. Passing the bar, he makes his way to the back of the building and slips through a simple swing door, emerging into the empty stainless steel kitchen area. This is as far as he’s gotten before, but it doesn’t take him long to spot the coffee machine tucked away to the left of the doorway, close by an open slit in the wall where the coffees are passed through to the bar.

Saving that aside for later, he flicks the light switch on to get a better look at everything, and begins to wander. The stoves are all in the centre of the room, creating a horseshoe shape around an island counter in the centre. There are shelves and hooks for utensils and crockery hanging above the island, their brand new shine glinting against the bright lights. Against a wall are fridges, sinks and dishwashers, matching the sleek and shining silver of a modern kitchen.

He bypasses most of this, currently useless to him. If anything, he’d only manage to cut himself on one of the chef’s knives while poking around, so he steers completely clear. To his right, at the opposite end of the room, he sees a large steel door, for what he presumes is a walk-in freezer, and a simpler wooden door with a frosted glass panel next to the freezer.

Curious, Will approaches it, pressing his fingers against the _Manager’s_ sign to push the door open. He stays in the doorway at first and peers inside, finding an office small in size compared to the rest of the restaurant. A desk is in the centre and two small bookshelves sit in the corners of the room behind it. Covering the desk is a mass of papers, booklets and manilla folders stuffed with files, and a leather bound ledger sat to the side, away from the mess.

Will smiles as he approaches the desk, letting the door fall shut behind him, and runs his fingers along the edge of the wood. The room is much more fitting with the rest of the restaurant, matching the deep mahogany wood rather than the starkness of the kitchens. The wallpaper is ruby red and the single window is covered with off-white curtains.

Automatically, Will approaches to open the curtains. The room is suddenly flooded with overcast light, and he feels somewhat disappointed that he’s met with the back corner of another building; a brick wall and the glimpse of a car park.

He closes them again, then turns to exit back into the kitchen. Before he reaches the door, he stops when he notices a small unit attached to the wall beside it. It has a line of buttons down the side and a single dial, but most of it is covered with a small black screen. Will can’t help but tap the power button, curious if the device is connected to anything, and smiles to himself when the screen lights up and offers him a menu of music.

He taps the screen, selecting the only playlist available. He’s met with an endlessly long list of overtures, symphonies and sonatas, numbers and names he doesn’t recognise. Hesitantly, he taps the “shuffle music” button at the top right corner of the screen, and jumps slightly when the room is suddenly filled with sound. He instantly goes for the dial, turning it slightly to the left, relieved to discover it controls volume.

Will leaves the music on as he retreats back to the main restaurant area. He’s pleased to find his assumption is correct, in that the music is playing through bared speakers in the corners of the room.

He stands in the centre of the restaurant momentarily, looking upon his sketches with a small smile on his face, the violins slowly guiding him towards the wall. He scoops up a thick graphite pencil on his way, and drags a step ladder closer with him. As the music lifts, he wants to feel taller with it, and steps up to a higher level to drag his drawings upwards.

When Hannibal arrives back at the restaurant, late in the afternoon, he met with Frédéric Chopin blasting through his speakers, while Will has positioned himself on all fours at the base of the wall, his hand moving rapidly to continue his art from ceiling to floor.

Without speaking, Hannibal closes the door as quietly as possible behind him, and retreats to one of the booths. He sets his briefcase down, sheds his coat to hang it over a seat, and untucks the tupperware meals he’s carried from under one arm. He sits against the wall so he can watch Will draw and cracks open one of the containers to eat his home-prepared meal, smiling all the while.

They don’t talk until much later. “You’ve made quite a lot of progress,” Hannibal comments. “Is it better for you to work when I’m not here?”

Will hums softly as he runs a thumb smoothly against the wall, creating an arc of lightly smudged graphite. Finally, he responds, “Not exactly,” and eventually turns to look over his shoulder and offer Hannibal a smile. Before he turns back to his work, he drops his head low and rolls his shoulder back, taking barely a second to stretch himself before the tip of his pencil is back on the plaster.

They fall into another silence, Hannibal now watching Will, while his half-finished meal sits ignored on the table in front of him. He watches the curve of Will’s spine as he shifts, the muscle stretching the fabric of his shirt and pulling it taut around the waist of his jeans. When his eyes fall to the slope of where his thighs meet his backside, he quickly looks away, busying himself with the tupperware in front of him.

“I feel I should be offering you something nicer than half-cold servings of glorified sausage-and-mash,” Hannibal continues. Will immediately looks up, perked up like a dog at the mention of a bone, like he hadn’t even realised the food had been placed down for him.

He laughs lightly and drops his pencil, finally pushing himself to his feet to approach the table for his lunch. Hannibal tries not to be disappointed at the loss of such a nice view, and holds the container out for his artist.

“I can re-heat it, if you’d prefer,” he offers, but Will shakes his head and slides into the seat opposite him.

“This is fine, thank you,” he murmurs, and begins to tuck into his food. “What you’re doing is plenty enough. I think you’re often forgetting that my life isn’t as glorious as this on a regular basis.”

Will chuckles again but Hannibal simply smiles. “I will treat you to something better,” he promises for the future, before finally returning to his meal.

 

The following week, Hannibal cashes in on his promise to offer Will a nicer meal. Their schedule has been running tight, with many late nights and early mornings, giving Will barely a moment to even tend to his dogs. Hannibal has seen to it, by driving out to Wolf Trap after wrapping up his business in Baltimore and feeding them food from his own kitchen -- pausing at times to look around Will’s home, run his fingers along the dusty shelves of his bookcases and examine the art he has on display.

It’s toward the end of the week, nearing on a fortnight since Will began work, that the sketches reach a stage of completion. Some are less detailed than others, but the entirety of the wall has been primed and covered, with some gaps for larger blocks of paint and others consisting of tiny cluttering of detailed figures.

Hannibal’s immediate response is a call of celebration, to praise Will on his good work and to keep his attention in the project piqued with positive reinforcements. He arrives at his home in Wolf Trap, in the early afternoon of Will’s day off. When he’s called into the house, he finds Will curled up on his sofa with a dog in his lap and a sketchbook against the arm of the chair. Always drawing, always thinking, even when he’s given time to himself. Hannibal smiles down at him.

When Will looks up, the glint in his eye falters and his pencil stills on the page.

“You have nothing to worry about, Will,” Hannibal assures, as he hesitantly leans down to touch one of the dogs on its head. “I merely came to ask if you would join me for lunch. We’ve reached a milestone in the production of the mural, I thought you may care to celebrate with me.”

Will relaxes at that notion and instantly nods. Hannibal waits by the doorway as Will pries the dogs away from him and finds a navy vest slung over a chair by his kitchen table, and slips it on over his long-sleeved tee. He dusts himself off, grabs a coat, then joins Hannibal in walking to his car.

The restaurant is, to Will’s relief, nothing as fancy as what Hannibal will be running. They eat dumpling at a table for two, set close by a window where the Baltimore rain spatters against the pavement outside to supply them with relaxing autumn ambience. Hannibal decides he wants to, for once, cast aside the artist side of Will, and mixes them into a game of twenty-question as they pick at their meals.

He begins with the basics, asking after Will with some genuine concern. “How are you?” He starts, “You look tired today.”

Will’s head is down for most of the meal, watching his plate and occasionally flickering up to Hannibal’s hands, but not usually much higher. “I’ve had some sleeping troubles,” he admits, but waves it off as a casual inconvenience.

Hannibal thinks better of it. “That’s no good,” he comments, “I need you on your best form. What seems to be troubling you?”

A shrug and silence while Will debates how much of himself he wants to share. Hannibal lets him mull it over. “I have a tendency to be plagued by nightmares.”

“Repetitious dreams? They are usually the worst of them.”

Will dodges the question as he pierces a whole pork dumpling with his fork and points it towards Hannibal’s plate, asking, “When did you start cooking?”

Hannibal smiles, willing to play the game. “When I was much younger, and still living in Paris with my relatives. It has always been a hobby, but I have been longing to own my own restaurant for some years now.” He reaches to his wine glass and pauses with the edge a breath away from his lips. “What do you usually dream about?”

“Beasts,” is Will’s much simpler answer. “Following me, enveloping me. Becoming me.” He bites half the dumpling off his fork. “You lived in Paris?”

“During my time at a boarding school, and a few years thereafter.” He asks, “Have you travelled?” but something about Will’s constantly tired, slightly weatherbeaten appearance suggests that he already knows the answer.

“Only within America,” Will responds. “Following my dad around, looking for work. Finally came to settle in Wolf Trap. It’s easy, here. It’s not too... expecting.” Will pauses for a moment, seeming to try and come up with another question, and Hannibal simply waits. “What did you do before the restaurant?”

“I was a surgeon,” Hannibal answers easily, “Although I had an avid interest in psychology. I found that cooking was the one thing that kept me grounded throughout my career. What about you; how long have you been drawing?”

“Always,” Will says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Art came to me when words let me down. Drawing let me show the other kids at school what I was thinking. It was just enough of a barrier to keep them interested, but at bay.” Will risks letting his eyeline hover to somewhere mid-ground between their plates and Hannibal’s face. “What about you, Doctor Lecter,” he smiles, testing the words on his tongue, “What do you know of masks and lies?”

Hannibal tilts his head down, only just catching Will’s eye. “Have you always used barriers, to protect yourself from the outside world? It may not be the most effective...”

Will smiles weakly. “I build forts.”

“Associations come quickly.”

Will gave a light shrug and picked up his own glass of wine, hiding his face with it. “So do forts.”

Hannibal chuckles warmly and reaches across the table to him. He touches the stem of Will’s glass, and Will allows him to pry it away from his face. He sets it down on the table and finally Will looks him directly in the eye.

“You don’t need to use barriers around me,” Hannibal says quietly. “Or hide in your forts, or whichever you’re used to.” His fingers slowly slip away from the glass and back to rest on his side of the table. “I hope to be something other than just a client.”

Something in Will’s throat swells and his fingernails dig into his chair. Hannibal’s eyes are a magnificent white; he can see the rain from outside reflecting in them.

“I am your friend, Will. Or at least, I would like to be. You don’t need to act as if you’re always trying to impress me.”

He laughs, easing Will into a smile, giving him the confidence to finally break eye contact. “It should be obvious by now,” Hannibal continues, “That I am impressed by you.”

Will laughs, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He runs a finger along his fork where it sits next to his plate, tapping it gently with his fingernail before he finally picks it up again. He doesn’t continue eating right away, however, and instead glances back at his... friend.

“Tell me more about Paris,” he prompts, and Hannibal raises his glass gladly.

 

The second luncheon comes much later in the week, and much later in the night. Will is warming to the unexpectedness of Hannibal's habits, who seems to always pick the right time to whisk him away for distractions from work. He always comes just as Will is beginning to feel tired of painting, or when he's at home alone and the solitude is beginning to scratch and claw at his skin.

When Hannibal arrives back at the restaurant after a long day of painting alone, Will suddenly feels underdressed and incredibly disheveled. Hannibal stands in the doorway with his coat folded over one arm, in a dark three-piece suit paired with a light paisley tie, watching Will in silence as he cleans his brushes and palette in a tub of water.

Marks of paint stain Will's forearms and there are flecks through his hair and across his shirt. A smudge of blue colours his cheek.

“You've made wonderful progress,” Hannibal comments, still standing by the door. “Shall we dine out, again?”

Will is smiling with his head bowed as he washes the paint out of the bristles on one of his brushes. “It's late,” he answers, “You don't have anywhere to be?”

“Not tonight.”

Will is bundled into Hannibal's car with little fuss and his client's coat thrown over his shoulders. They arrive at a restaurant similar to the last one they had dined in, but the building has a different feel at this time of night. The patrons are dressed more smartly and the lights are warmer and dimmer, mixing with the darkness outside. With quiet piano music playing and Hannibal's expensive suit opposite him, Will's displacement intensifies.

He swallows thickly, eyes settled on Hannibal's hand as he pours Will's glass of red wine. He's too aware of his paint-covered clothes and his tousled hair, and when he pulls his glasses halfway down his face, he's more or less trying to hide from himself than from the others.

“Relax, Will,” Hannibal tries, “You're panicking.”

“I'm not panicking,” Will retorts. “I feel like some stray dog you've dragged in behind you, in a place like this.” He tries to laugh but it leaves his throat cracked and dry.

“Then forget everybody else, and focus on me.” Hannibal places the glass down in front of him and pulls his menu out from his grip. It's not as if Will was reading it anyway.

When the waiter comes, Hannibal orders for both himself and for Will – something light; Will is thankful – and more wine for later. Will doesn't think about it too much and simply drinks what's in front of him.

Hannibal pries, gradually, his mind away from their environment. He talks at Will for a while, telling him about the work he's doing while he's away from his painter, about what he plans for the restaurant and his experience with dining others before. Somehow, it's not boring. Will finds himself smiling into his sips and Hannibal manages to smoothly refill him while he talks. It's nice, to not have to think so much, to just listen. Every now and then, Hannibal drops in a reference to his youth, a memory of cooking at school or drawing during college, but it's swept away with the conversation before Will's mind has a chance to linger.

Will eventually joins the conversation without really realising it. Hannibal asks a simple question, something Will forgets easily, as he distracts himself with his own words and tangents. They talk of art, but in a way that has Will leant over the table, to get closer to the conversation and closer to Hannibal. There's no useless banter about famous paintings or pretentious analysis of the industry; it's just two artists talking light and colour and life.

By the time Will finishes their first bottle of wine, the two of them are laughing, trying to speak through their breathlessness and clutching empty glasses in front of their faces. Will is vaguely aware of how composed Hannibal is, even when he's tipsy on the needlessly expensive grape juice, and of how easygoing he's being, despite being in a room full of strangers, covered in paint. He's all the more aware of how much he doesn't care.

Hannibal drives him home and walks him right to his door, his hand pressed gently against Will's back, right up until Will turns to face him and thank him for the night. Will doesn't even realise it until he's inside his little home and can feel the ghost of Hannibal's touch, of the warm space where his hand used to be.

It's even later, when he's sat in his armchair with Winston curled on his lap and a bottle of beer in his hand, that he realises he's just come home from a date with Hannibal Lecter.

The realisation of the date is temporarily forgotten when Will is awoken too early the next day. They fall back into their previous routine easily; Hannibal waiting at the door while Will feeds his dogs and dresses and eats in his client's car. They arrive at the restaurant quickly and Hannibal stays, for an hour or two, to help Will get into his painting. For a week they continue; Hannibal slipping away when Will's attention is elsewhere, and only recognising his absence when he turns around to find it late in the afternoon.

They don't have a set schedule for Will's working days. Sometimes Hannibal shows up, sometimes he doesn't, giving him just enough rest in the week for Will to spill his muse into the mural then allow his hands a moment to relax.

Days pass and Will finds that he's comfortable. It's an odd realisation to find himself smiling as he paints, smiling as he wakes and smiling when his solitude is interrupted by a dark blue suit. He wants to find the words to thank Hannibal for the work, for the comfort, but is once again at a loss, supplied only with his brushes and his colours.

It's an early Sunday morning, before the cafes have welcomed their regular patrons and the streets are yet to be filled with lazy traffic. Will rolls up his sleeves and scoops up a brush, while Hannibal disappears into the kitchens behind him. Will waits, brush hovering above the previously lain paint, and listens.

When the footsteps of his client sound behind him, Will turns, glasses slipped halfway down his nose already and his eyes wide behind them. Hannibal stops in his tracks, unused to his leave being noticed, and smiles at his painter.

“Stay,” Will says, swallowing dry and lowering his brush. “It's easier to paint when you're here.” _You give me muse;_ He thinks; _you fold my colour; you read my thoughts and help relay them._ “Could you stay?”

Hannibal voices no objection. He merely sways, eyeing the door, then looking upon his wall, before he sheds his coat and jacket and begins to fold up his sleeves.

By midday, the room is filled with Bach and colour, moving and interlacing through each other. Will paints hills and forests and fields while Hannibal fills them with buildings and figures and faces. Will picks up pencils to refine a detail, and Hannibal paints over it. They lay down layers and layers, stopping together and drinking their coffees on the paint-covered sheets while it dries.

Their first break is in the late afternoon, when the sun only just dips low enough to break through the front windows. The room is covered in a warm light and deep shadows casting their figures across the back wall.

They're silent for a while, melting into the heat of the coffee and allowing their bones to crack and ease.

Finally, Will lifts his head towards Hannibal kneeling opposite him, but keeps his eyes on his drink. “You took me on a date,” he says, the question in his voice evident, but he's really just waiting for a confirmation.

 

Hannibal pauses with his glass hovering close to his lips. He waits, thinking for a moment, then nods. “Yes, I did.”

Will's heart begins to beat harder against his ribcage. He had known, it was obvious, but to hear it straight from the horse's mouth gave an entirely different feeling.

“You want to date me,” he says slowly, “Whatever happened to just friends?”

Hannibal hums behind a smile and places his drink aside. “I said I wished to be more than just a client,” he corrects. “I never really specified how far I wanted it to go.” They both fall silent for a minute before he continues, “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Want to date.”

Will is expecting his heart to still, but it keeps thumping louder and louder and is more surprised that Hannibal can't hear it. He's reached a hand out before he can stop himself, hovering in the space between them, unsure what to do. Hannibal saves him, again, when he pulls himself forward and takes the hand in his own. They lean together, and Will doesn't know if they're about to kiss, right up until the moment they do.

Hannibal turns his hand to lace their fingers and he squeezes, pulling them closer and straightening his back, raising them up onto their knees together. Will's second hand automatically flies to Hannibal's hip, more to keep his balance, but revelling in the feel of a firm hip under his tucked shirt.

Their lips move hesitantly at first, until Will has properly gained his balance and presses their chests together. They untangle their hands so his arm can wrap around Hannibal's shoulders, and Hannibal's hands both find a home either side of Will's waist. They kiss harder; lips parting and tongues meeting, heads tilted to make way for warmer touches.

Will begins to lose himself in their short, sharp breaths, melding tongues and tightly gripped fingers. When his hands move to Hannibal's jaw, clutching him close, he can feel himself swaying as Hannibal leans him back, carefully laying him onto the ground with one hand slid up his back for support. Hannibal pulls their mouths apart just long enough for Will to gasp for breath, before he settles himself back down, pushing Will's thighs apart to sit between them.

He's lost, so lost, clutching Hannibal for dear life in a desperation to keep afloat, but he knows what he wants, and he can't do this. He can feel the afternoon light filtering past his eyelids, the sun dipping from day to night just bright enough to tinge his vision red, and he's all too aware of it. He pushes Hannibal back, taking a second just to catch his breath and open his eyes, before he shakes his head.

 

“This is... They can see,” he excuses, turning his head on the floor to look at the large, open windows at the front of the store. No one is walking by, but he can feel the ghosts of pedestrians staring in through them and watching him unravel.

Hannibal breathes a laugh through slightly parted lips. “Very well,” he agrees, and manoeuvres himself to be beside Will rather than between his legs, still hovering over him. He rests a hand on the floor next to Will's head and bends down to kiss him more sweetly, with the potential to go further but the promise of chastity.

Their coffees, their paints, their responsibilities are all forgotten as they lay and kiss, touching the cloth of each others shirts and tracing the splatters of paint on each others' skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm soooooo glad people seem to like this. 
> 
> as requested by an anon, here is a rough floorplan of hannibal's restaurant (since it may have been a little confusing in the descriptions)  
> http://bilvy.co.vu/post/81962973652
> 
> aaaand a playlist of colour-based songs to get you in the art mood  
> http://bilvy.co.vu/post/52225427667


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Graham is a starving artist and Hannibal Lecter is about to open his own restaurant in Baltimore. Encapsulated with the former's art, Hannibal commissions Will to paint a mural on the inside of his restaurant. They end up spending far too much time together.
> 
> Chapter 3: Sex and nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohhhhhhhhh this is my favourite chapter 
> 
> i hope you like it tooooo

Will’s night is a fitful sleep in a lonely bed. He tosses and turns well into the morning hours, but eventually stills when he feels the weight of one of his dogs resting upon his legs. He wakes with the dread of work in the back of his mind; eager to see Hannibal again but not so excitable about the idea of work itself.

When he cracks his eyes open and squints at his bedside clock, he frowns at the numbers, sure that something is wrong. It’s nearly midday, but he can hear movement downstairs, and momentarily tenses up underneath his blankets. He waits, trying to decipher the sounds, but notices his dogs have not grown aggressive, and can only assume that someone they recognise -- Hannibal, he supposes -- is in his house.

Slowly but surely, he gets out of bed and tugs on some longer pants before making his way downstairs.

Will stands against the stairwell for a minute, leaning against the doorway and looking out into his kitchen, watching Hannibal’s back as he cooks. He smiles slightly to himself and traces a hand against the wall, trying to find the words to greet him. All that comes out is a murmured observation, “You’re cooking breakfast?”

“Lunch, technically,” is Hannibal’s reply, with barely a flinch or any gesture of surprise at Will’s voice. After a moment he turns to look over his shoulder and smiles at Will’s tired expression. “I arrived a little while ago, knocked, but got no answer. I assumed you needed your sleep. After all, we were painting quite late last night.”

Will is still smiling as he walks slowly into the room. “So you decided to cook me breakfast -- lunch,” he repeats, taking a seat at his kitchen table.

Hannibal chuckles under his breath and goes to switch the stove off. “The least I could do.”

Will resists some sort of cheesy remark along the lines of, _You could do more?_ and lowers his eyes to where he’s folded his hands on the table. Only a minute or two later has Hannibal set a plate down of scrambled egg and bacon with a light salad of spinach, orange and macadamia. Will looks at the meal, poking at it tiredly with his fork, only vaguely aware of Hannibal moving around his house in his tired state.

He closes his eyes to the sounds of Hannibal dropping pans into his sink and running water from the faucet. There are footsteps, dogs paws trotting across the floorboards, and the opening of cupboards as Hannibal cleans up what he’s used, then a sudden silence.

Will opens his eyes and looks up to find the kitchen empty. He panics momentarily, his breath catching as he turns his head quickly around the room to find Hannibal standing at a cupboard with his back to the painter. Will immediately rises from his seat when he realises which cupboard he’s standing at, but it’s too late -- He can see Hannibal’s head is looking down at a small square canvas in his grip.

Open in front of him is Will's cupboard of nightmares, of skeletons, open and bared for Hannibal to see. He makes a move to step forward, but his knees buckle from beneath him, and he falls right back into his chair.

Hannibal looks back at the thud of Will's landing. He lowers the painting. His expression is bare but his eyes show a sadness that Will refuses to look upon.

“Will,” Hannibal says quietly, eventually placing the canvas down upon one of his sofa chairs and slowly walking across the room to meet him. Will's eyes lift in time to see which painting it is – the silhouette of a stag, with black and grey and blue clouds bursting from beneath it, the red draped and dripping from his eyes and mouth. The painting he had come half way to finishing, right before Hannibal first texted him.

He turns his head away and runs a hand through his hair. Hannibal stops by his side and places his hands hesitantly upon Will's knees.

“Will,” he says again, trying to catch the other's eyes but to no avail. “Are you ashamed of this painting?”

“All of them,” Will answers immediately. He turns his head sharply to look Hannibal in the eye, a cold stare that dares Hannibal to turn away. He does not. “Put it back. I don't want to look at them.”

He's relieved when Hannibal stands and returns to the cupboard. He's not so relieved when Hannibal begins to remove each of them and lay them upon the sofa. Will's breathing picks up and he has to turn his head away again, staring out the window and holding his head in his hands. His fingers grip his hair tightly as Hannibal attempts to talk to him from across the room.

“Will, they are beautiful. I can see why you wouldn't want to destroy them.” Hannibal runs his fingers across the surface of one of the canvases, following the line of deep blue that curves against a thick black. “Are these your nightmares?”

Will tries to hold back a laugh but it falls from his lips, dry and sarcastic and breathy. Hannibal can read him so well. “Yes,” he says to the window.

“These are your beasts,” Hannibal says, and when Will hesitantly turns to look at him again, he finds Hannibal's back to him once more, his eyes scanning across the small exhibition he's displayed for himself across the sofa. There are paintings from months ago, from at least a _year_ ago that he had blocked from his memory, now laid bare to stare him in the face.

Hannibal continues. “You're hiding them, but not dealing with them. Did you paint these subconsciously?” He glances back and Will manages a stifled nod. “Your subconscious is trying to deal with the images you've seen, but your conscience won't allow it.”

He lowers himself to his knees and tilts his head to look upon the paintings he's rested on the floor, leant against the bottom of the sofa. Will swallows thickly when Hannibal touches them, runs the tips of his fingers lightly across the thickly layered paint.

“You shouldn't run from your problems, Will,” Hannibal finally says, and Will nearly snaps. He nearly stands, shouts, and if his legs hadn't been so weak, he would have. He would have shouted Hannibal right out of his house and never spoken to him again. But he doesn't – he turns his head into his hands and presses his palms into his eyes, waiting for the burst of starlight before taking in a deep, shaken breath.

“To run from pain is only to worsen it.” Hannibal's voice is closer now, but he doesn't lift his head. Will feels a warm palm against his shoulder. “You should keep painting. Finish them. Give them the attention they don't deserve, to prove to yourself that you are better than them.” As his voice softens, as does the pressure Will applies to his head. Hannibal's hand remains.

“Paint them into books, paint them to the mural. Whatever you need to do. Finish them and conquer them.”

Will finally lifts his head and finds his vision blurred with wetness. He convinces himself it's from the pressure of his hands, and is thankful when Hannibal doesn't mention it. Hannibal has knelt again, his spare hand rested upon Will's knee and he leans in to rest his forehead against Will's shoulder, eyes closed. “Perhaps we should take a day,” he suggests.

One of Will's hands finally lowers from the table to rest his arm around Hannibal's shoulders. Hannibal turns his head to press his lips to Will's arm.

“You can do as you wish,” he offers, “I will accompany you or leave you alone if you wish, but perhaps it would be best to leave the mural for a day.”

Will only manages to say, “You can stay,” before Hannibal stands back to allow Will the space and privacy to dress.

 

He returns from his bedroom a matter of minutes later, with a beanie tugged over his hair and a thick coat to keep him warm. “You'll need your coat,” he says to Hannibal, as he begins to pick his dog leashes from a rack on the wall.

Hannibal helps him clip up the dogs and split the leashes between them – Hannibal takes three of the smaller dogs while Will handles four of the larger ones, two in each hand.

It only takes a whistle and a hiss to control the dogs from jumping excitedly out the front door. Will leads Hannibal with them to his car, to where he helps Will get the dogs into the back before buckling himself into the passenger seat. Will drives them in silence, though they’re only on the empty road for fifteen minutes or so until he pulls up to a lake reserve. The trees surrounding them have turned a crisp orange, mirroring in the still surface of the lake water. 

As Will controls the dogs’ excitement to get them out of the car in an orderly fashion, Hannibal paces, his head lifted to admire the colour of the trees. When he hears the car door slam shut, he turns to take half the leashes out of Will’s hands and they begin to walk, allowing the dogs to lead them towards the water.

The silence is peaceful, and Hannibal doesn’t want to break it in fear of fracturing Will’s mind. But he can’t help but comment, “It’s beautiful here,” and ask, “Do you bring them here a lot?”

Will smiles at the canines excitedly sniffing at the ground in front of them and gives one of them a gentle tug to keep her in line. “When I can.”

They fall back into silence as they approach the bank and Will pulls the dogs back so he can untie their leashes. Hannibal follows suit, looping them evenly once they’re undone and standing back with his artist to watch the dogs frolic and jumping through the grass and foliage littering the edge of the lake.

His attention strays back to the landscape, eyeing the line of trees across the far edge of the lake and lifting his gaze to the greying autumn sky. His eyeline eventually curves back down to fall upon Will’s face, but the look is not returned. Will watches his dogs closely, half a smile tugging at his lips, although it seems forced.

After shuffling his feet and smoothing out the creases in his suit, Hannibal leans in closer to speak quietly.

“I’m sorry I found your paintings.”

Will blinks but does not turn his head. Hannibal’s eyes narrow.

“I’m sorry I went through your things,” he retries.

Will turns his head at that, looking Hannibal in the eye with the same politely empty smile. His eyes lower after a moment as he pulls his glasses from his face, folds them and tucks them into his pocket. He sways a hand closer to touch his fingers against Hannibal’s, who catches his hand and presses their palms together to entwine them.

“I’m sorry,” Will finally sighs, and shifts his footing to step a little closer. In the cold, Hannibal doesn’t mind. “It was just a shock to see some of those laid out for the first time in... in a long time.”

Hannibal squeezes his hand and looks back out to where the dogs run in circles and play with one another. A jack russell approaches him and jumps at his legs, so he bends awkwardly to touch it on the head, while keeping his other hand tied with Will’s.

Will can tell from the way Hannibal quickly dusts his hand off on his jacket and looks back at the trees, uncertain as to where else he should look, that he’s not in his comfort zone. Hannibal is used to plush leathers and stainless steel countertops, not orange wood and blackened grass stains. He appreciates the way Hannibal stays silent about it, tries to smile for Will, and keeps their hands together despite a growing restlessness.

As a reward, and a proper apology, Will turns to face him completely, letting go of his hands to take a gentle hold of his lapels instead. Hannibal starts at the touch and turns to him, smiling wider when Will smooths his hands up and down Hannibal’s chest before laying them to rest at his collarbone; one lowered to hover over his heart.

“I needed this,” Will admits, leaning closer but not touching their lips. “I’ll paint tomorrow. We’ll paint tomorrow...”

Hannibal’s hands wrap around Will’s middle and tugs him closer, their hips connected. At the sound of another car pulling up and the possibility of fishers and other dog walkers, Hannibal keeps it at that, but allows himself to brush their lips together. Will’s head tilts and he melts into the hold, hands lowering to grasp Hannibal’s lapels and sway their bodies together.

Since their kiss, Will has noticed a certain laziness gracing his brush strokes. He still feels the biting cold air from the edge of the lake when he’s indoors, can still imagine the press of warm lips when he’s sipping coffee while he paints. He still allows Hannibal to drive him to the restaurant and doesn’t mind when Hannibal has to slip out on business, but his method is slower, more relaxed, as his mind wanders to much more pleasant things than beasts and shadows.

Every now and then he will turn his head and look down the wall. Half of it is still graced in grayscale sketches, with base colours slapped on but nought a detail added. He used to feel scared, intimidated by the challenge, but when he turns his head in the other direction to see what he’s completed, he feels a swelling of pride and the heat of accomplishment spreads from his heart to his fingertips, urging him to keep on painting.

Hannibal’s absence adds to the the value of his presence. As the weeks stretch on, the restaurant begins to fill with more people and less Beethoven. The opening of the restaurant is growing near, and there are renovations to finish beyond the paint. Hannibal has requested Will’s privacy while he paints, but there are times of clash that cannot be avoided when repairmen pass through to the kitchens and stop to talk about his work.

Fortunately, this means that Hannibal is also around more. He remains stripped of his suit jacket and keeps his sleeves rolled up more often; a sight that is not underappreciated by Will. He darts in and out of the restaurant continually, checking on the builders and conversing lightly with Will as he paints. Towards the end of the days, before the renovators take their leave, he offers them all a chance to sit and eat at the booths while Will works.

Will can hear them, can hear their loud chewing and their grotesque remarks about his paintings and even of his figure. They’re big men, rough and loud, and nothing that Will would ever want to be, but it still causes a slight shake to his brush hand when they talk of his tiny body, weak arms and worthless career right behind him, as if he couldn’t hear.

Hannibal excuses them from the building as soon as their meals are done, and Will feels slightly sick at the hospitality Hannibal continues to extend, to offer them individual rides home even after their rudeness. When he returns much, much later in the night, Will is sat in one of the booths, an empty box of take out on the table in front of him and his hands fiddling with an unopened box of cigarettes.

Hannibal looks slightly exhausted under his usually calm veneer. He approaches Will’s table and stands by his side, resting a hand upon his shoulder and looking down at the cigarettes.

“They were particularly foul, weren’t they?” Will offers, glancing up at him with a slightly pained smile.

“I had to offer them rides,” Hannibal excuses, “It would have been rude not to.”

Will raises his eyebrows and drops his head back down. He pries at the plastic packaging wrapped around the packet in his hands.

“You don’t smoke, Will.”

“Used to,” Will corrects. “Seemed only fitting for a starving artist. Soon learned the expense wasn’t worth it.”

Hannibal’s fingers press gently, not quite massaging his shoulder; just tightening. “What changed?”

“I needed something stronger than coffee, I guess.”

Hannibal finally slips into the space next to him, prying the pack from his hands and turning it over to inspect it. He’s met with the image of a toothless smile riddled with black gums and disease. He sets the pack down, lining it parallel with the edge of the table. Will seems nonplussed.

“I spoke to their supervisor,” Hannibal informs him. “I won’t be needing their services any longer. The work that is left can be done myself. It’s not worth it to have them around.”

Will smiles but his eyes remain on his hands. “I could really do with a smoke.”

Hannibal turns, twisting his torso to face Will and tilt his head towards him. “No, you couldn’t,” he scolds, before pressing their lips together.

He drives Will home in the dark, and Will is considering inviting him to stay. Before he has the chance, Hannibal claims some final strings he has to tie for the day, and kisses him before he leaves.

The next morning, Will is served premium bacon strips alongside an egg and cheese stuffed croissant. Hannibal gives him time to wake up and they end up driving to the restaurant at midday, on a car ride filled with the piano of Francis Lai and the scratching of Will’s pencil in his sketchbook. He feels a little better to be back in an empty building, his solitude only disturbed by Hannibal’s duties on the other side of the room. 

The music from the ride inspires his brush, and he paints more slowly into the details of a face. A vast figure is centred amidst the creatures and colours on the wall, a man with a crisp white shirt, apron tied around his waist and a silver platter balanced upon his finger tips. While he began as an unknown, Will takes it upon himself to stand atop his stepladder and draw the details of Hannibal’s face onto the wall.

He takes his time to admire the jaw, curving his brush along his cheekbones and creating each strand of hair with care. As meticulous as Hannibal is about his appearance, Will knows he has to be the same with the painting.

When he steps down from the ladder and brushes his hands onto the thighs of his jeans, he finds Hannibal standing in the middle of the room, arms folded over his chest and head tilted as he smiles up at the portrait.

“You spent a long time on the lips,” he observes, his tone sultry and teasing.

“They’ve been at the forefront of my mind,” Will admits, with a little cheek of his own as he grins down at his palette.

They fall back into silence as Will touches up portions of the wall they’ve already painted over. There will never be a finished artwork, and as long as Will has the option to continue painting, he will stand until his feet ache in order to perfect. By the time the sun has set and the sheets have been hung back over the front windows, Hannibal has picked up a brush and walked to the opposite end of the room, in an attempt to pry Will away from what is already finished and get him working on the drafted figures.

Reluctantly, Will takes the hint. He picks up his tray of paints and brushes and buckets, drags it closer to his client and sets everything down between him. He moves the sheet on the floor with his foot, kicking over the upturned corner an adjusting the various sheets of paint-splattered newspaper as a final mark of procrastination.

When his brush is set back to the wall, his eyes manage to stray a little further to look upon the paint beneath Hannibal’s hands. He finds it unfair almost, for Hannibal to be able to work on his own, to carve into Will’s drafts and sketches and produce detail that Will would be perfectly happy leaving as the final product. He almost feels cheated; not for having to paint when Hannibal is perfectly capable on his own, but for standing at the man’s side for nearly six months without seeing a single piece of Hannibal’s original art.

After a minute or two, Hannibal’s brush stills and he turns his head to look at Will beside him. “You’re staring,” he says, eyes flickering to the lack of paint beneath Will’s brush then smiling back at him.

Will snaps out of it, the tips of his ears reddening in embarrassment as he shakes his head and looks back at the wall. “You’re distracting,” he retorts.

“Would it be better for me to be out of your eye view?” Hannibal asks, and takes a step back from the wall. Will can hear the smile in his voice as clearly as he can see it on his face, and he rolls his eyes for good measure.

“I can still see you.”

Hannibal disappears momentarily, and Will assumes for the most part that he’s trying to be helpful. He has twenty seconds to press the tip of his brush against the wall before hands are suddenly on his waist and a breath tickles the back of his neck.

“Hannibal --”

“Keep working, then,” Hannibal taunts, while his fingers stray from Will’s sides to wrap around his front, palms pressed to his hips.

Will breathes heavily and shifts under the contact. He tries, genuinely, to pull a line of paint down the wall, but the second he feels a pair of lips against the nape of his neck, his eyes fall shut.

He doesn’t dare moan or whisper Hannibal’s name -- he couldn’t bring himself to do something so filmatic. But he does curl into the touch and lean, just enough, to place his brush down upon his palette. His hands hover over Hannibal’s where his fingers are beginning to dip past the waist of his jeans, and he can feel Hannibal murmuring before he hears it.

“We are curtained tonight,” he says, catching Will off guard until he looks to the front of the shop to find the windows masked, the outside view completely closed off. He contemplates what that means for them, but when one of Hannibal’s hands slide up his stomach, underneath his shirt, he gets a pretty strong idea.

Will turns his head, trying to meet Hannibal’s lips over his shoulder, but the other seems adamant at keeping his teeth to Will’s neck. He enjoys the touches, where his stomach involuntarily flexes under Hannibal’s fingertips, but it doesn’t take him long to tug himself out of Hannibal’s grip so he can turn around and kiss him properly.

Arms snake around shoulders as mouths meet, lips parting and tongues pressing together immediately. Hannibal’s hands don’t waist time and pulling the last of Will’s shirt out of his trousers and moving his palms up his bared sides. Without much thought, Will arches his back and rocks himself forward, touching their chests and hips and groins together in a flush. He nearly buckles at the contact, especially when Hannibal’s fingers tighten his grip on his skin and nails dig into flesh. 

Will flinches at first, but returns the favour by sucking Hannibal’s tongue into his mouth, scraping his teeth against the muscle. He can feel Hannibal’s smile against his mouth before he’s suddenly thrown back, his back slammed to to wall against wet paint and plaster. His breathing quickens and his chest heaves against the other’s, but he makes no audible complaint.

Will pulls their mouths apart, just for a moment, to catch his breath and tilt his head right back against the wall, baring his throat in full. “What do you want?” He asks, eyes closed and mouth fighting a broad smile. He wants to see how far he can push; if he can break that composure that Hannibal is usually so meticulous about.

It turns out to be easier than he’d originally thought when Hannibal’s only response is a low _growl_ , hot and breathy with his lips pushed up against his throat. It causes Will’s grip only to tighten, his arms pulling him closer and feeling Hannibal’s hands physically shaking around where his nails have begun to puncture Will’s skin.

“That’s rude,” Hannibal finally whispers, trying to straighten himself up as his fingers relax, transferring the pressure from his nails to his harmless palms. He keeps his mouth to the curve of Will’s throat, teeth bared and gently scraping against his stubble before kissing just to the side of his adam’s apple.

One of Will’s hands unwraps itself from Hannibal’s shoulders to cup his jaw and pull him back so he can lower his own head back down. “I’ve forgotten my manners,” he breathes, and pushes himself off the wall to kiss his mouth again.

The motion causes a stumble, but Hannibal catches himself on one of the tables before he gets to fall to the floor. He only just stops himself from laughing at Will’s shock, then reaches out to grab Will’s untucked shirt and pull them both down onto the hard wooden ground.

The sheet twists and rumples under their movements, but it’s large enough for them to continue without needing to adjust themselves. Will finds himself, somehow, on top, a knee either side of Hannibal’s hips and his hands upon the other’s chest. Hannibal has his elbows against the floor, holding himself up just close enough to steal another kiss, before laying back, gripping Will’s shoulders, and pulling him all the way down.

Will risks a pulse of his hips against Hannibal’s groin, and he’s met with a clamp of teeth down on his tongue from of the shock of it. His hands hover momentarily, shaking in mid air with nothing to touch, before he gives up and grabs at Hannibal’s shirt. He pries open the waistcoat and fumbles with buttons, slipping once or twice until he ends up tearing, popping them out from their threading. He’s genuinely surprised that Hannibal seems content to continue kissing while his Swedish fabrics are torn from his chest. 

When Will’s hands press against his skin, he has to pull back just for a moment to look upon the lean body beneath him. He doesn’t waste time in tugging the shirt from his waistband, leaning back to allow Hannibal a chance to sit up and properly shed his clothes. Will takes the opportunity to pull his own over his head, throwing it aside and completely ignoring where it lands.

With them both sat up straight, Will shifts to be properly straddling Hannibal’s hips and rock himself again, pressing groin to groin and resting both his hands in the crook where Hannibal’s neck meets shoulders. He laughs as they shift, tangled, to remove their shoes and unbuckle their belts, finally down to nothing but underwear when Hannibal decides it’s time to flip them over.

Just like before, he keeps a hand pressed firm to Will’s back, arms strong enough to hold him up and lower him as slowly as he likes, keeping them flushed together for as long as possible. For just a brief moment, Will enjoys the complete control he can give to Hannibal; to be able to trust him enough to hold his entirety in his hands, to not have to worry about himself for just a second until he’s firm on the floor again.

He’s distracted with kisses when hands sneak under waistbands and erections are freed, touched and ground against. He needs to gasp but his mouth is completely taken over by Hannibal’s, forcing him to breathe him in and arch his back for his lungs to fill as much as they can. His hands fumble, trying to hold onto Hannibal’s shoulders but keep slipping, can’t keep a firm grip, and he ends up tangling his fingers around the back of Hannibal’s neck to hold him down.

His breathing becomes audible when a hand wraps around his cock and begins to stroke up, easing Will’s back into arching up along with the movements and continually shuffle beneath him. He parts his legs, allowing Hannibal to slip between them, as he pins his knees to either side of his waist.

Hannibal’s mouth finally pulls away and he dips his forehead against Will’s neck, allowing them both the chance to breath while Will is jerked off beneath him, squirming and rocking along with it. Somewhere along the process of undressing, his glasses had been pulled from his face, but he can still manage to make out clear shape and form when he tilts his head down and laughs at the first sight he sees.

Hannibal slows, turning his head into his chest and twisting his wrist.

“We’re covered in paint,” Will explains, voice breathless. He feels a sharp breath against his collar; a silence laugh.

He eventually has to take a hand from Hannibal’s neck and physically grab onto his wrist, guiding it to his own stomach instead before pulling their hips flush together. His fingers trail along Hannibal’s lower back, dipping with the dimples there before sliding down his backside and gripping tightly to the back of his thigh. Hannibal rocks forward with it, his mouth now settled on Will’s neck, his teeth grazing, a breath away from clamping down and ending it all.

Eventually Will returns his earlier favour, shifting his hand from Hannibal’s thigh to his dick between them and wrapping his fingers around the head and sliding down the shaft. Hannibal’s hands have to plant down either side of Will’s shoulders to properly keep himself up, while he rocks his hips into the touches and makes sure to keep them close together, always touching.

His wrist jerks, fingers extending to touch his own prick as he slides a palm along Hannibal’s, releasing an involuntary moan into the empty restaurant. Hannibal’s mouth immediately closes over his, too late to drink in the sound, but making the most of his weakened reflexes and helping him along with the firm and wet. 

He can feel the precome smearing over his hand, but doesn’t expect to feel the warmth of one of Hannibal’s palms joining him, tangling their fingers together as they rock and sway in sync to keep the contact. His hand guides Will’s to apply to right amounts of pressure and the right timing of twist, but it isn’t long before he raises himself up and away from Will’s mouth and chest.

Will thinks for a moment that something is wrong, but all he finds is a heavy lidded gaze trailing down his smooth chest, then a shift of position to back up and settle closer between Will’s thighs. His hands close over his hips as his breath ghosts over his navel, sending Will’s hips rocking up again and bumping Hannibal’s throat. 

“I’m really -- fucking close,” Will gasps, head fallen back against the hardwood flooring again, eyes squeezed shut and hands grasping at air, desperate to clutch onto something. Hannibal moves a hand up for Will to tangle their fingers, but keeps the other at his hips, pinning him down as he opens his mouth and licks a warm strip up Will’s cock.

A strangled moan is caught in his throat and he twists Hannibal’s fingers, his other hand curled into a fist. The hot breath against cold hair is too much and he tugs his hand, trying to ask for more, but losing the words where his tongue is pressed to the back of his teeth.

It doesn’t take any more than that for Hannibal to properly close his mouth around Will’s cock, using his tongue and cheeks and breath to take in as much as he can and suck him to his climax. Will doesn’t expect him to keep his mouth there when he comes, swallowing easily without hesitation, and if Will weren’t beyond breaking point, he’d feel even more turned on by it.

Hannibal settles himself close again, touching his forehead to Will’s once Will’s hands gladly return to Hannibal’s erection and help him to the edge. He’s sure he’s being sloppy but he can feel Hannibal shake ever so slightly above him, and the heat of his come against his stomach is satisfying enough for Will to kiss him through the taste of himself.

They fall asleep in the dark, with Hannibal’s fingers trailing invisible shapes onto Will’s bare chest and blinking against his collarbone. The weight of Hannibal’s chest leant half against his own is enough to calm him into slumber, to shield him from the cold that bites from every other angle.

The warmth stays with him, less like a blanket and more of a nucleus hovering just over his body rather than within it. He feels like he can reach out and touch it, feel the heat of their act in his hands and meld into it, let Hannibal become him. But when he tries, when he lifts a hand to touch Hannibal’s shoulder, in a room so dark he cannot see, and cannot truly tell if he’s asleep or awake, the warmth disappears. It dims like a candle, the heat extinguished but the smoke wafting before his eyes and blurring his vision.

He feels himself try to sit up, but his body is heavy; he leaves it behind. Sitting vertical and alone, Will glances at the floor around him and then up at their wall. He’s met with an endless plane, reaching up into the sky and extending further than his eye can see in every direction. His surroundings are darkened, as is the wall, and yet in the pitch blackness of it all, he can still tell where wall ends and air begins.

Will stands hesitantly and is vaguely aware of his above-waist nakidity. He takes a step towards the wall, but his feet only manage to shuffle, so he reaches a hand out to try and touch it, to affirm it’s there, to find where all the paint has gone.

The moment he lifts an arm, he feels a sharp pain in his side. He looks down and can see punctures, small and bright red marks the size of fingernails lining all the way up both his sides, and when he touches them hesitantly, they begin to bleed. His breathing quickens and his chest heaves and he presses his palms against his sides, his fingers shaking and slipping in the wetness of his own blood.

He spins around, mouth open to call Hannibal’s name, to call for help, but the ground is bare, but for a pool of the stark red blood where he had laid. He spins back around to his wall and begins to cough, spitting mouthfuls of the red onto the floor; red brighter than paint, the colour stinging his eyes against the black and grey smoke and mist he’s surrounded with.

His breathing falters as he staggers forward and his hands give up on protecting his sides. He reaches for the mural, fingers outstretched like claws as he tries to grab and hold onto his anchor, his one point of safety. There’s nothing to hold onto but he tries, he tries as if it were skin and muscle and hands outstretched and waiting for him.

His fingers brush the surface and leave a trail of the bright red behind. He chokes again, and he can feel it dripping, sliding down his jaw and mixing with the blood smeared over his chest. He needs Hannibal’s firm hands, he needs the calm and the steady to hold him still, but when he thinks of it, it only makes him shake harder. He swipes a hand across the wall; another thicker splash of red. With every touch, more red stains, as if his hands were the paint buckets, as if he were painting with his very skin. 

He tries to protest, tries to whimper, but it spills out in liquid. He finally presses himself to the wall but he can only slide himself against the cold hard surface, completely reddened under his touches. When he tries to wipe it away, to clean off the mess, it only spreads further, dripping down to his feet and sticking between his toes.

Amidst the shaking, the slipping, the choking, Will feels a gust; a breath. He tries to turn his head but he feels pinned, stuck to the hot liquid between him and the cold wall. He tries to say Hannibal’s name but his tongue swells, silencing him for good, blocking the air to his lungs. His head lifts, waiting for the end, waiting for the close of eyes and the heavy swell of death to tug his soul away. But all he feels is the breath again, cold and chilling to his neck, before a palm lays over his punctures and something hard like bone gores through his middle.

When the offending object slips right through his gut and hits the wall on the other side, Will wakes with a jerk, his body spasming him into consciousness, but not quite sitting up. He practically vibrates where he lays, chest heaving and muscles shaking beside Hannibal on the floor.

The ground is hard and cold against his back, causing him to jerk up into a sitting position in an attempt to escape it. His skin is cold and wet and he grasps at his sides, sliding against the skin before holding them in front of himself to find his hands are bare in the dark. No blinding red, just sweat, covering him in head to toe, freezing his body in the cold night air.

He looks around the room in a panic, met only with the cool blue of nightshade. It must be the early hours of the morning; Hannibal’s sleep seems deep, and the restaurant is still and silent. He hears no cars and sees no lights beyond the moon and the flickering street lamps behind the curtained sheets upon the windows. The air is still, too still, and he’s too aware of the loud and shaking sounds of his own breathing that muffles the heavy beating of his heart.

After an instant, his eyes fall upon the mural across the room. It’s as close as it had been in his dream, but the paints are still there; there’s no black or stained red, just sketches of charcoal and many shades of grey seeping from underneath layers of colour. The images are inoffensive, calm and still and mere children created by his own hands. But the fear in his heart clutches him tightly, grips his stomach in its cold claws and before he can think twice, he’s shot to his feet and started walking towards it.

He speeds up, feet slipping on the sheets laid over varnished wood and he slams into a table in the dark. The flimsy plastic and wood digs hard into his hip and he falls with a loud crash; paint buckets, brushes and boxes and construction tools flying across the room and to the ground, sending splatters of colour all across the floor. The sound of the crash and bang rings heavy in Will’s ears and shakes his entire body, but he blinks through it and makes a dive for the first weapon he can find -- a simple hammer that had fallen from the table in the crash.

His heart beats in his ears as he scrambles frantically to his feet, approaching the mural with heavy steps. He blinks and see flashes of bright red, staining the wall and covering his hands. The vision wavers in and out of focus with the clanging in his ears and he can no longer tell whether it’s sweat or tears stinging his eyes.

He’s ready to swing, has the hook end of the hammer bared and his arm drawn back, but he’s stopped at the sound of slipping feet and a muffled shout of his name beneath the ringing of metal paint lids and splintered wood. A hand wraps tightly around his bicep, gripping with more pressure than he was originally expecting, immediately pulling back to force his whole body to slam onto the ground.

He tenses and flexes against it at first, but as soon as he feels the weight of Hannibal over him, pinning him to the cold, hard floor, his body caves and the hammer slips easily from his grip, dropping with a thud beside him. He feels muffled beneath Hannibal’s weight, his chest heaving under his knees and upper arms pinned firmly to the ground while his hands dangle uselessly by his sides.

He can see Hannibal as a blur in front of him, his face a sickly pale blue in the light, his cheekbones accentuated in shadow and his brow creating dark circles under his eyes. Through his tears, Hannibal looks like death, and Will briefly wonders if his time has finally come, if he had died in his dream and is ready to be taken.

The sting of Hannibal’s backhand is sharp and brings the world back into focus. His eyes still blear with tears, but he can see Hannibal’s face clearly through them, can see the composed worry in his eyes. The thumping of his heart no longer muffles his ears and the ringing fades out; he can only hear the mix of their heavy breaths in the still night.

He opens his mouth to speak but he isn’t sure what to say or how to explain what he saw.

“Will,” Hannibal whispers hurriedly, “Don’t destroy. Don’t destroy what we’ve created. Don’t let them destroy you. Remember what I told you; don’t run. Paint them and face them and create; don’t destroy.”

Will tenses his hands into fists as his eyes squeeze shut, finally pushing the tears out of his stinging eyes and sending them rolling down his cheeks. Hannibal’s grip does not loosen.

“I can’t create,” he whispers, feeling the thickness of his tongue in his mouth, the dry scrape of it against the back of his throat. “Everything I create will turn to black and smoke and ash in my hands until it suffocates me,” he chokes, tries to catch his breath, “Until it suffocates me and destroys me first.”

Hannibal hushes him gently and leans down to lay his head next to Will’s. He can feel Hannibal’s heart; he can hear it, loud as drums, pumping against his skin.

“Is that what you dream about?” He whispers, aching to understand.

Will’s aches are stronger. “I dream about everything.”

Hannibal sounds like he’s trying to laugh and it’s terrifying; it’s terrifying to find him so shaken, the opposite of the composed masterpiece that Will had first met in his classroom.

“There’s a lot of room for good in ‘everything’,” he tries to reason. One hand loosens his grip to test the water, and when Will stays where he is, limp and shaking on the floor, he moves his palm to his chest and strokes gently, trying to soothe.

Will can only shake his head; keeps his eyes closed, for fear of more tears to blind him.

“Not if it’s eclipsed by all the evil.”

Hannibal breathes hot against Will’s neck and stays there for as long as he’s able. When Will’s body finally begins to calm, when his hands just shake by his sides and his lungs lift and fall at an even rate, Hannibal rises, easing his weight off him and sitting by his side.

“Will,” he murmurs, “Paint. Paint it. Paint everything you see, right onto the wall.”

Will opens his eyes and blinks through the salty film of drying tears, staring straight at the ceiling.

“Lay them bare for everyone to see. You can conquer them. Humiliate the shadows they way they’ve humiliated you.”

“Have they humiliated me?” Will asks, voice suddenly so small, so dry.

“Look at yourself, Will,” Hannibal murmurs, more hurt in his voice than Will thought possible. “Look what they drove you to try and do.”

Will lays still for another ten minutes before Hannibal finally pulls himself to his feet and retreats to the kitchens, still trying to catch his own breath. Will blinks as a light is switched on elsewhere in the restaurant, creating a sterile glow that seeps into the room of mahogany floors and his colourful wall. His eyes lower from the ceiling to the mural, taking in each detail slowly, looking at it properly as if it were the first time.

He carefully sits up, back hunched and knees drawn to his chest, clad only in his underwear. He can hear a coffee machine somewhere, but he only sees his art. His own; not someone else’s, what he had created, what he had shared and built with the hands of someone who he --

Will drops his head to his knees, pressing them against his closed eyes. He needs the starlight to pop beneath his eyelids, to give him some light to guide him by. But nothing comes; just darkness, and he wraps his arms around his legs to clutch himself tightly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Graham is a starving artist and Hannibal Lecter is about to open his own restaurant in Baltimore. Encapsulated with the former's art, Hannibal commissions Will to paint a mural on the inside of his restaurant. They end up spending far too much time together.
> 
> Chapter 4: The struggle of separation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologise for the delay and i hope you all enjoy the last chapter!

There’s still a hesitancy to his brush strokes, despite having made the changes to his sketches well over a week ago. It’s a different kind of hesitancy when he folds straight black paint onto the wall, easing the curve of the stag’s neck over the backdrop. When Hannibal first convinced him to paint his nightmares, he had shaken, jittered and stirred as he sketched and drew, for a fear of what Hannibal would think. His nightmares had always been left to curl in the corners of his mind and gather dust in the corners of his closet. Never before he had laid them out for someone to see before.

Hannibal had laid his hands upon Will’s waist from behind, watching carefully from over his shoulder. He didn’t join, didn’t interrupt; he had to let Will do it for himself.

Tonight is so different; tonight he has an audience. Hannibal had come to him the night he finished the last sketch, his voice quiet and his eyes firmly set to Will’s as he told him about the restaurant’s plans, about his schedule and his finances, and all that Will got out of the conversation was: paint in front of people.

So there he stands, alone and fragile within his own skin, breathing slow as he paints and tries to ignore the patrons of the restaurant.

The opening night has gone well, so far. The restaurant is packed. There are tables of six and rich couples and smartly dressed businessmen, all chatting and drinking and eating the fine foods woven from Hannibal’s fingers. 

Will has been sectioned off along with the unfinished portions of the wall. He’s tucked away behind a barrier, something obvious enough to keep people away from him, but nothing to block the noise or the stares or the people trying to talk to him, to ask him questions and offer him business cards and demand his services.

His brain feels like it’s shaking in his skull. He tries to keep his back to them all and focus on the stag on the wall in front of him. It’s taller than he is, towering over him, with feathers in place of fur tufts and eyes redder than ruby red paint. He lays it on thick and lets it drip, spoiling the three-dimensional illusion with the bright, solid colour. He feels a sharp pain in his sides, and tries his best to ignore it.

Every now and then, he risks a glance over his shoulder. Hannibal is being constantly pulled from the kitchens, the epitome of class in a white dress shirt neatly folded to his elbows, apron tied firmly around his hips and a white chef cap over his neatly combed hair. He folds his hands behind his back and bows gently with his smiles, listening to tangents of praise from the patrons. He addresses some of them in French, others in plain English, although his European accent drips coolly over the words and causes some of the women to jokingly fan themselves, touching his hands as they praise him. 

Will doesn’t feel jealousy for the attention. If anything, he’s glad that Hannibal’s moment in the spotlight is going well and drawing the focus away from himself. He enjoys watching Hannibal basking in what he does best, just as Hannibal has gotten to watch Will do the very same over the past few months.

He smiles weakly to himself whenever Hannibal passes by. Sometimes he catches Will’s eye and offers him a reassuring smile, but he’s always disappearing back to the kitchens, back to run his restaurant.

Will’s mind begins to ease as the night draws closer to its end. The room has begun to empty and feels less out of place in his painterly clothes (he wears something clean for once, and had been leant an apron from the kitchens to avoid splattering himself too much, but he still feels disheveled in comparison), especially as the well-dressed men and women sitting at the bar move off their final drinks and stumble their way out. His palette is almost an artwork in itself by the time he finishes for the night, a swirl of colour melding together with barely a space of clean wood.

Soon enough, they come to their official close, and one of the young chefs locks the front door. Will hears a popping of champagne from the kitchens and cheers after Hannibal has finished praising (or scolding) his new employees, and finally, the music switches off as the trainees begin to disperse.

An hour of quiet celebration before Hannibal and Will are the only ones left in the building. He sets his palette down and begins to wash his brushes, keeping his head down even when he hears Hannibal pushing through the swing door and pushes past the barrier to join him.

Already three glasses into his celebration, Hannibal is eager to kiss Will, tilting his head to try and catch his attention before pressing their mouths firmly together. Both his hands are full, a glass of champagne in each. The kiss ends and he holds one out for Will, who takes it gladly. 

“Congratulations,” he murmurs, chasing his lips again, to distract himself from the nausea in his stomach.

He finishes half of his glass in a single gulp and tears his glasses from his face, now they’re alone and he can go without his barriers. 

“I’ll make you dinner,” Hannibal offers, while his eyes follow the lines and curves of Will’s face as he moves and tries to smile. “It’s quite late.”

“You’ve worked enough tonight. I can get a take-out.”

Hannibal hums and sets his glass down beside Will’s palette. He takes his glasses from his hands and begins to clean them on his apron. Will watches his hands.

“Do you need me to buy you a taxi?”

Will smiles weakly. “I drove myself today, remember.”

Hannibal nods slowly, eventually lifting his gaze to the other’s. Of course he can sense something wrong. “How are you, Will?”

“Proud,” Will tries, allowing himself to watch Hannibal’s lips while he talks. “And selfishly disappointed.”

Hannibal’s eyes stray lower as his finger tugs gently at the strings around Will’s apron, after having tucked his glasses back onto his shirt. “Disappointed?”

“I’m disappointed, not getting to spend the day alone with you.” Will frowns as soon as the words leave his mouth and he turns back to his champagne. “Selfish. Co-dependent.”

Hannibal chuckles and finally lets the strings alone. His hand runs smoothly down Will’s sides -- he must have had more champagne that Will had first thought. “Romantic. In a way.”

“We’re romantic, now?” Will asks, genuinely startled by the comment. Hannibal frowns at his own words and brings his hands back to his sides.

“I am a tad tipsy.”

Will leans over to kiss him chastely on the mouth. “I’ll drive you home.”

Hannibal decides they can wait for a few minutes more. He holds both his hands out and waits for Will to take them, before leaning in to kiss him, and placing Will’s hands upon his hips. He turns to rest his forehead against Will’s temple and look upon the new paintings.

“Is this your repetition?” He asks, while his fingers gently stroke over Will’s knuckles, holding them there. “It’s bigger than the others. I can only assume you see it more often.”

Will smiles weakly and lowers his eyes so he doesn’t have to look the stag in the eye. “It’s certainly my most recent,” he admits, and is sure to keep his eyes firmly on the wall when he feels Hannibal looking at him.

He’s since realised, after his attempts to paint the creatures, what had happened in his last nightmare. It was not just bone that impaled him, but an antler, piercing through his gut and lungs and heart all at once. He’s convinced himself that the breath upon his neck was not Hannibal, but the animal itself, although he’s not as certain of that one. 

He realised the stag because he’s seen it before. He may go short stretches without dreaming of anything at all, but the deer will always return at one point or another. Whether it be watching him from afar or stampeding towards him, it always makes its way back, and he feels foolish to have not noticed the velvet on his wounds earlier on.

A thought suddenly occurs to him and he subconsciously tightens his grip against Hannibal’s waist. “Do you think things will change much when I finish?” He asks, trying to convince himself not to feel fear. He’s gone this long without co-dependence of any kind, and to think that he should fall into such a habit with a romantic partner -- someone as busy as Hannibal will be, too -- feels foolish, reckless, ridiculous.

“I would spend every last cent on more commissions if it meant to keep you close,” Hannibal promises, and Will has to hold back a laugh. It’s too scripted, too poetic to feel real coming from his lips, as nice as his accent made them sound.

“Let’s get you home,” Will eventually decides. “You’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

 

Will spends almost every night at work until the mural is finished. His fenced off section gradually shrinks and shrinks with the more he paints and more of the wall that gets finished. He spends whole evenings upon his step ladder to paint up high and look down upon the diners, watching them silently and pretending they’re mere ants beneath his feet. Well dressed, high class ants with more culture in their little finger than he could ever hope to express.

Sometimes he remains on the floor, back to the world, his brush skimming the skirting boards. Once, he’s interrupted by small children, smartly dressed along with their parents, but still wild and adventurous as children tend to be. It’s a pair of them; an older boy in a child’s tuxedo and a younger sister in a pale blue dress. They crawl under the barrier and sit either side of him where he works, old enough and smart enough to realise they’re not allowed to touch wet paint. It’s just the right age for Will to be able to connect to, but before he can talk to them or offer them a paint brush, their mother grabs them away and pulls them from the small untidy man on the floor.

It’s odd, to feel alone in a room bustling with people. He rarely gets a chance alone with Hannibal at the end of the nights; always sharing a kiss and a wine as Will continues to work and Hannibal lazily assists the waitresses in cleaning up the restaurant.

The restaurant is closed when he finishes. His watch has just ticked over to one in the morning when he lifts his brush from the wall, having finished applying the final coat of sealer to protect it from customers and inevitable old age.

He presses the bristles back down, but the brush doesn’t move. Rests it there a moment, tries to convince himself that it’s over, that he’s finished.

When Hannibal steps out from his office to see, Will has put the brush away and rests the tips of his fingers against a dry patch of paint.

He feels hands settling on his waist from behind. Will’s head turns, his eyes lowering. One of Hannibal’s hands wraps around one of Will’s, his left hand that hangs limply by his side. They simply touch for a moment, before Will feels a coil of money being slipped into his palm.

“Thank you,” Hannibal says quietly to him, lips against his collar. “It’s beautiful.”

And it is. To the naked eye, and to Will’s fingers tracing lines and curves of his own creation. From the windows at the front of the shop, it’s covered in gentle pastels and blocked colours of Baltimore countryside that bleed into buildings, shops, cafes; littered with people wandering the busy streets. Nature turns to man and animals mingle with machine, as the colours and lines shift from patches and blocks into blended tornadoes. Hannibal’s figure, charming smile and platter of rich dessert, separates the bright scenery from the painterly mixes of colour that bleed towards the back of the shop. Patterns and shapes nestle between hands and mouths and plates of gourmet dishes; twigs of herbs and roses bordering bleeding steaks and towers of cream and chocolate. Man turns back to animal as the painting stretches to the rear of the restaurant, to the beastly silhouetted stag that watches over the customers with its fire hot eyes and mouth full of flavoured colour. Will’s nightmares burst from the wall, disguised to the public as simple creatures between thickets of wood.

The money feels like mere paper in his grip. He drops his gaze to look at it and unfold his final payment from its coil. Green and grey, just paper. He pockets it and turns to face Hannibal, expecting something more than this.

They don’t kiss. Hannibal just says, “I have to prepare for tomorrow,” and lowers his hands from Will’s waist. They nod, touch fingers, before Will escapes to his car, to where he runs his hands across the steering wheel and stews in his own silence.

The silence follows him home in the form of a broken radio and a lonely drive. He greets his dogs with touches rather than words, makes his coffee, and tries to feel proud of his accomplishment. Not only has he finished a trying commission, but he’s lasted six months without caving in. But now, now he sits alone with his furry friends and his cold caffeine and everything starts to crumble down at once.

He manages to hold up his foundations with wooden beams of thoughts and plans; he plans his next call to Hannibal, recalls his new partner’s days off, and the possibility of surprising him after work one night. The possibilities keep him going, long enough to fall into bed in the late evening, his body feeling like cracked bones wrapped up in paint and coffee.

Will lasts two week without words. By the end of the thirteenth day, when he pries himself from his armchair and meanders into his kitchen to find he’s in desperate need of a grocery trip, he feels as if all knowledge of words have left him. After such a long commision, Will expected himself to be buried in books and television and anything that didn’t require his own hand to work. But he’s found that all day he’s been drawing, almost as if he were desperately clutching onto the last remains of his mural, and hasn’t uttered a word to himself.

He’s painted too many still lives of his house before, and he has diaries filled with dogs, so he’s spent the time sketching from memory. Pages and pages graced with Hannibal’s face, hands, standing within his restaurant and the restaurant itself. But nothing feels right -- nothing feels as real as the man himself, and the drawings don’t do him justice.

Feeling incapable of such meagre human contact that he would receive at a checkout, Will decides to skip lunch and wait until he’s hungry enough for dinner, before he makes the drive to Baltimore. He calls in advance, but Hannibal doesn’t pick up, as has been his habit over the past fortnight, so Will assumes to bump into him at his own restaurant. He dresses up as best as he can, having slipped into a dark blazer and a light shirt over slimmer trousers. He still doesn’t quite fit, but he’s not looking to blend in with a crowd. He’s looking for an excuse.

The meal is delicious, expensive, and lonely. He keeps a firm lookout for familiar faces, and finally towards the end of his main course he asks his waiter for Hannibal Lecter. He’s answered with apologies and excuses of Hannibal’s dedication to the kitchen, which Will can forgive, considering the amount of diners that night. There’s still a tinge in his chest as he sits alone at his table, which remains after he skips dessert and makes a beeline for his car, without so much as a second glance at his work gracing the wall opposite him.

Once home, Will calls again at midnight, when the restaurant is scheduled to close. At the sound of Hannibal’s voicemail, one he has grown far too familiar with, he drops his phone into a dog bed and trudges up to his own, clicking his tongue for his jack russell terrier to follow him up to join him at the end of his mattress.

When his head hits the pillow, he feels his mind finally caving, the wooden slats splintering under the weight of it and breaking in two. He falls into unconsciousness before he has a chance to watch the dust of his collapse settling over cold ground.

Will awakens late the next day, hollowed. He rises, silently. His feet hardly react to the cold wooden floors beneath them. Without thinking, he feeds his dogs and leaves his front door open for them to frolic without supervision. He picks up his phone from where he’d dropped it, calls up his old community college and schedules more sessions for him to teach. Twenty minutes later, he has a full week of work ahead of him, which he rewards with a piping hot coffee. He burns his tongue on the first sip and falls into his favourite armchair in front of the heater as his collie jumps up onto the arm and licks the side of his face. Will scolds her, pushes her down, earning a scratch on his arm in the process.

He does this, and he feels nothing.

The banality of his newly set routine gives him the opportunity to begin rebuilding from his foundations. He leaves the sketches of Hannibal in his book -- he can’t bring himself to do something so childish as tear perfectly good art from his pages -- and focuses on other work. His plan from the beginning was to integrate the mural into his everyday working life, and Hannibal had been the one to tear that away, not Will. The frustration lies in his affections for the chef, in his inability to feel betrayed or bitter; just tired. Limp. Inconvenienced.

The sudden shift from busy to lonely starts to sink in, and settles low in his gut, like sand at the bottom of a tank. His state is mistaken for apathy at work, and for that, he is partly grateful. He wouldn’t know how to explain this to someone if he was asked.

He moves through classrooms and the four walls of his little house like a ghost, trying to remember how it feels to step alone and not feel the breath of another touching the nape of his neck. He has to retrain himself to cook his breakfast and draw in grayscale and wake each morning with nothing to look forward to. Will forces the process onto himself, desperate to kick out of his rut and stand back on his own two feet before the week is out.

The following Tuesday is long and tiresome, but Will needs the constant distraction of easy work. He takes his time getting home late that night, stopping at a local pub for half a pint before driving home in the empty darkness. His dogs greet him with whimpers and licks as he crosses the threshold, finally coming to a pause for the first time all day when he spots something out of place.

A small, square package, wrapped in off-white paper and tied with silver ribbon is resting upon an armchair, calling him to open. He stares at it for a full minute before moving into his kitchen and fetching himself a tall glass of water. The present waits for him, dim light from one of his lamps bouncing off the shimmer from the ribbon and taunting his presence.

When he finally takes it between his hands, he sits on the floor in the centre of the room and allows his dogs to surround him. He pries nervously at the corners of the paper, peeling it back rather than ripping it, and holding his breath when he’s faced with what’s underneath.

First; three flat rectangular boxes, made of black card and entirely blank, except for a French titled logo written in white script along the sides. He opens the up individually to find charcoal, pastels and pencils in each one. Will resists checking the price tags.

Underneath the boxes is a square frame, a foot wide and tall, with a drawing already immortalised inside. He swallows thickly as his fingers brush over the glass, tracing the curves of shaded pencil beneath. It has been some time since Will looked upon himself in a mirror, but he instantly recognises that the figure in the drawing is his own, laying horizontal with tousled hair, face unmasked by his glasses that lay on the floor beside him. He is asleep, his body slightly curled up, and the perspective is of somebody laying beside him.

The memory of their night together, rocking hips and clutching fingers on the floor of the restaurant some months ago, floods back as his fingers move from the glass to clutch either side of the frame.

He stares for only a moment longer before the picture is dropped onto a sofa and his hands clutch keys instead of elegantly carved wood.

When he arrives at the restaurant in Baltimore, he isn’t really certain of what he plans to do. He doesn’t really have a plan at all. He decides to take it one step at a time as he parks his car aside, checking his watch -- nearly midnight -- and makes his way for the front doors of the building. His plan to move slowly is shattered beneath his feet when he stops and finds the restaurant is closed, lights off and doors locked. He would turn and flee back to his car, if it weren’t for the lone figure leant up against the front window, puffing on a cigarette.

Hannibal, still clad in his chef’s attire with apron slung over one shoulder and cap stuck out of his back pocket, lifts his head to offer a small, smokey smile.

Will’s feet move him closer without his consent, and before he realises it, they’re standing side by side, both their backs leant heavily against the glass.

“I hope my gift wasn’t too distasteful,” Hannibal says as way of greeting, his eyes lowering to follow the trail of smoke that spills from his lips.

Will turns his head to look at him. He keeps his glasses on. “What exactly is your end game?”

Hannibal crushes the cigarette under his foot and turns to face Will properly, but for the meantime, he keeps his hands to himself. “This wasn’t my intention,” he starts, lowering his eyes to look at the space between them, rather than Will himself. “I’ve barely had a chance to breathe these past few weeks.”

The oxygen catches in Will’s throat; he had spent so long trying to ignore the time, he doesn’t realise just how long it’s been. A month, at least, since he felt Hannibal’s skin, or breath, or lips.

He reaches a hand out to fist in the other’s shirt and pull him closer. He’s not angry, even now; just tired. Limp. Lonely.

“It’s been,” Will searches for the words, “Odd.”

“Not working on the mural?”

“Not standing next to you.” Will frowns, tightens his grip. 

“Who’s romantic now?” Hannibal teases, but his smile is lost on the silent artist.

“I’ve waited this whole time to see your art,” Will admits. Hannibal’s hands remain at his sides. “It was beautiful. But confusing. What _is_ your intention?”

“The restaurant has been going so well,” Hannibal starts, as a hand slips into his pocket to pull out his pack of cigarettes, the same one he had confiscated from Will so long ago. There are two left inside after he slips one between his fingers and lights up. With it dangling from his lips and his hands cupped around his lighter, he continues, “Incredibly well. I’m holding job interviews for another manager. I’ve been working around the clock, and having someone else on board will give me more time for myself.”

Will remains silent and doesn’t allow himself to jump to any conclusions. Instead he watches Hannibal’s hands, fingers curled around his cigarette instead of Will’s palms.

“I’ll have more time for you.”

Will’s hands leave his shirt to wrap around the nape of Hannibal’s neck and pull him into a kiss. He tastes of everything Will has missed, with a swirl of new flavours, of smoke and chocolate sauce, and completely raw. Hannibal doesn’t hesitate to lean into it, tonguing Will’s teeth, and a hand finally tangles into Will’s hair while he rests his other wrist against his hip, fingers still clutching his cigarette.

“I meant what I said about keeping you close,” Hannibal breathes against Will’s lips when he finally pulls away, “But time has escaped me. We have much to make up for.”

Will’s mouth tries to chase the other’s, teeth trying to nip lips as his fingers lace together around his neck. “Do you have more work for me?” He asks.

“Another mural,” Hannibal responds, “On the ceiling of my bedroom, perhaps. Would you like to have a look?”

Will’s breathy laugh is cut off with another kiss, something harder and more desperate than before. The cigarette falls to the concrete as Hannibal’s arms wrap around Will’s waist completely and Will’s arms curl around Hannibal’s shoulders. They kiss like they’re trying to suck the breath right out of each other; like the tide is rising and the last tank of air is nestled in each other’s lungs.

Finally, Hannibal proposes, “Come home with me,” and nods towards his restaurant as he explains, “I need something other than this.”

As they cross Hannibal’s threshold in a tangle of touches and kisses, the bitterness that had been threatening to bubble over Will’s mind recedes, and the hollowness refills with every touch to his lips. Hannibal breathes the life back into him and massages the cracks from his bones, throwing the man onto his bed and holding him down as the coldness evaporates from his body and into the ceiling. The genuinity of his kisses spark life back to Will’s limbs and they turn, tossing each other on silken sheets to remember the crooks and curves they have gone too long without.

Will wraps himself around Hannibal, giving his entirety to him. He scratches nails into the older man’s back as he feels the push and pull of Hannibal inside him, biting kisses out of him and receiving breath and life in return. His heels press against Hannibal’s calves and he turns his head into the hands that curl against his jaw and tangle in his hair. It’s rough and sharp but close and warm, and Will finds himself shaking and emotionally bloated when they finally part.

He lays still for a few minutes, his hands touching Hannibal’s hair where he’s laid next to him; face hidden in his arms. They trade lighter kisses only for a minute before Hannibal fades, becoming mere mass of weight and breath on the bed beside him.

After such a rush of feeling after a month of numbness, Will finds that he cannot sleep. He expects to be overwhelmed, and that he is, but the spark keeps a steady flame in his belly that doesn’t wish to be extinguished just yet. 

He sits up slowly, leans himself back against his hands as his gaze follows the curve of Hannibal’s shoulders and back; softened by the warm light flooding in from the hallway. His fingers extend to trail down his spine, pleased to find Hannibal doesn’t awaken at the touch.

Inspired by the moment, Will gently slips off the bed, stepping into his underwear first and then crossing to Hannibal’s desk, where his trousers hang over the back of the chair. He touches the denim momentarily, deciding whether to dress or not, but his attention is caught by a sketchbook on the table.

He knows that when he explores Hannibal’s art, he wants to do it while Hannibal is awake. He wants his eyes on him and his hands turning pages for him; so Will doesn’t flick through it now. He turns to the back, dusting off a blank page, then picks up a pencil from the table and returns to the bed.

Will lays back against the headboard, propping himself up against pillows. He leans over to brush his lips against the skin of Hannibal’s shoulder, and when he remains unconscious, Will sits back and begins to draw. His eyes stay glued to him for the moment while his pencil flows, transcribing the curve and dip at the small of his back, eventually glancing down at his page to detail the fold of sheets crumpled beneath him. What begins as a sketch soon evolves into something more, as his fingers smudge and erase and blend the light to the form.

He pauses only once, to thread his fingers through Hannibal’s hair and push it from his eyes; wishing to catch a glimpse of his face on the page from where it’s still half hidden by his arms that clutch the pillow under his head. 

Will finishes fairly quickly, smiling to himself as he signs his name in the bottom corner, and leaving the sketchbook open atop his pillow. He leans back down for one more kiss, watching silently as Hannibal shifts and turns onto his back in his sleep, then finally Will rises and crosses to the desk, to fetch his clothes and dress himself.

His eyes remain settled on Hannibal’s sleeping figure the whole time, the smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. Everything feels alright. His vision is only blocked by pulling his sweater back over his head, the feel of fabric against his face reminding him that he’s still lacking his glasses.

When he’s dressed, Will returns to the bed and plucks up his glasses from the bedside table. He lays them down, unfolded, on top of the sketch book, and resists a final touch to Hannibal’s shoulder. Will makes his leave, pausing with a hand on the doorway to look back at his partner and smile into the darkness. He eyes his glasses resting on the page; his promise to return for them, his promise to return to Hannibal, and closes the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everybody for your kind words of feedback and i hope you enjoyed the fic. this was really special to me so it means a lot for it to be so well received. art will always be appreciated and admired, and any fanart made will be reblogged on my tumblr and credited on your behalf! xxxxx
> 
> http://bilvy.co.vu


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